To Return To A Friend
by truly unruly
Summary: Roger Davis and Maureen Johnson are not particularly close. But let's say they are... A take on their relationship. PreRENT through postRENT. High T. Complete.
1. Not As Much To Lose

**You know that feeling when you just want to **_**write? **_**Well, this is what happens.**

**This is only my second **_**RENT **_**story ever and I'm not sure if it'll be a multi-chapter or not. Ever since I read Gregory Maguire's **_**Wicked**_**, I've loved the idea of looking into the life of a character before the fact and, recently, decided to do…well, this. In both the musical and movie, Roger and Maureen's relationship is really undefined and I **_**know **_**that there are people that agree with me. So, I began to wonder what would happen if they had some past history. And this was spawned, haha! **

**If it DOES become a multi-chapter story, the others will obviously be introduced and it will probably be Roger/Mimi and Maureen/Mark then Joanne. Just to keep canon, you know. :) But I guess that depends on what the general opinion is. So, if you're reading, let me know!**

**Finally, about my timing. I have not seen the musical, but I know that there isn't a set time. The movie is set in 1989-1990, which is technically inaccurate because AZT didn't even become an official HIV/AIDS medication until 1990. So, in my mind, the Christmas where everything began is 1995 while the following events occur in 1996. So, Roger and Maureen would be twenty-four/twenty-five in the play/movie. That's just how sad I am…I think about this stuff :P **

**Bloody hell, this is probably longer than the actual chapter. Anyway, please review!**

* * *

**To Return To A Friend**

Ostensibly, Roger Davis and Maureen Johnson are not particularly close.

Why would they be? They have nothing in common except for their ideals and their friends. Maureen is loud and vain and excitable and self-centred, not out of place on a stage and known to have a wandering eye. Roger is her polar opposite—introverted, angry and just a little self-destructive. The people around them always wondered what would happen if the pair were left alone for an extended period of time.

(Collins used to joke about locking them in a closet and seeing what happened, but that idea never came to fruition. Besides, Collins doesn't joke much anymore.)

But if someone were to look just a little bit _closer…_

If Mark were to ponder a little on the way Maureen leant her head on Roger's shoulder once, when she was drunk and tired…

If Joanne were to think about the way Roger worriedly cupped her face and asked if she was hurt the night of her protest that Christmas...

If Mimi were to wonder why they never seemed uncomfortable or unhappy around one another, when they are so different that there should be no conceivable way for them to get along…

Perhaps they would find themselves skimming the surface of a relationship much stronger than they gave it credit for. After all, there was so much time unaccounted for.

They had moved into the loft together. Collins doesn't know what happened before that—_should've asked, never thought to ask, glad he didn't ask_—just that they were two kids in need of some generosity. Mark had moved in shortly after and everyone else just fell into place behind him.

Sometimes he wondered how long they had known one another before that. A few days, weeks, months? _Years?_

But he never wondered much, and certainly never remembered to ask. None of them did. Neither Roger nor Maureen offered up the information—maybe they were ashamed, or it was very personal. Maybe it was something they wanted to just be theirs. Maybe there was nothing at all to offer.

But let's say there was.

Let's say it went something like this…


	2. Laugh Like A Child

**Can I just say thank you for the four encouraging reviews I received? To be totally honest, I didn't even expect **_**that **_**many! :) Sorry if there are any typos in this; it's quarter past twelve in the morning and I have to be up ultra-early for a flight. When inspiration strikes…!**

**Hopefully my timing still makes sense here. If Roger and Maureen are twenty-four in 1995, then they'd have been born in 1971. I hope…my Maths isn't brilliant in the mornings.**

**Oh, and the school I mention is a real place in Hicksville, NY. I don't know if there are any junior high schools nearby but let's pretend there are…and please forgive the crapiness of this chapter. It's sort of a preliminary - detailing how they met, not how they really became friends. ****So, yeah, sorry. Haha.**

* * *

**Laugh Like A Child**

Believe it or not, Roger Davis and Maureen Johnson first met in 1977.

That September morning, a small, grey car pulled up hastily outside of Burns Avenue Elementary School. Out leapt a frantic woman, dressed in grey sweats, who immediately yanked open the back door. Her eldest son poked his blonde head out and frowned.

"This isn't my school," he deadpanned and his mother sighed.

"Richie, please!" she exclaimed.

"I left this one, like, four _years _ago…"

"Richard!" she cried, "Your school is just down the street and you're making us all even later! _Roger_! Roger, honey, get out the car!"

Richard obediently shuffled onto the pavement, slinging his backpack onto his shoulder as his baby brother followed his lead. At fourteen years old, he was a whole eight years older than Roger and took pleasure in often dangling the fact over his brother's head. _Rog, there's only one cookie left. Well, since I'm older…_

Roger hefted his lunchbox up and grinned toothily up at his mother, "Ready, Mama!"

Hurriedly, his mother pushed a strand of auburn hair out of her face and grabbed his arm, "Great, Roger, now let's go. Richie—have a good day!"

Richard waggled his fingers at his mother's retreating back, watching her drag Roger toward the main building. As he turned to make his own way to school, he smiled to himself.

First grade…poor Roger had no idea what he was in for yet.

* * *

Alexandra Davis prided herself on many things—her wit, her ability, her education—but the one thing she valued above all else was her capacity to remain composed and calm…even when she was staggering into her son's first day of school ten minutes late.

"Hello!" the teacher smiled. She was a young thing, barely out of school herself, with a sunny disposition and two long, mousy braids, clad in blue dungarees the same colour as her eyes, which were magnified behind her large glasses. Alex felt Roger's grip on her hand loosen as he ventured a step further into the room—he'd taken a liking to her.

"I'm sorry we're late," she said, skipping the niceties, "This is Roger Davis—he—"

"Yes, his name's on the register," the teacher giggled, and stooped to Roger's level, "Hi, Roger! I'm Ms. Tracey."

"Hi," Roger responded shyly. Alex tutted. Roger had always been a little _awkward _around girls, which would be a shame when he was a teenager. Even Ms. Tracey had to comment—"You're a cute little thing, aren't'cha?"—on his dark blonde curls, wide green eyes and nervous little grin. He was the spitting image of his father, all the way down to the cleft chin.

"Well, come on in," Ms. Tracey smiled, straightening and gesturing mother and son in. "I was just about to take roll call." Then she glanced at Alex. "You're welcome to stay, Mrs. Davis—some of the moms prefer to."

She tilts her head pointedly to a huddle of parents to the left of the door, watching the children fearfully. One woman, a serene, brown-haired lady, had even gone as far as to perch on a table.

"No thanks," Alex replied, "I've done this once already."

Then she bent to Roger's level, "I'll pick you up at three, okay?"

"You're leaving?"

"I have to, honey; class is starting."

Roger looked torn, "But—Mama—"

"Roger," Alex stated seriously. Seeing the look of worry on his young face was too much for her to bear but she couldn't coddle him—if she agreed to stay, she would never want to leave. "I need you to be brave, okay, sweetie? This is going to be fun and soon you won't even realize I'm not here…"

"Yes I will," he muttered stubbornly. Alex smiled and kissed his forehead.

"_Have fun_," she told him. With one last baleful look, Roger allowed Ms. Tracey to lead him toward the class.

Behind Alex, Nancy Johnson watched curiously. Personally, she couldn't fathom the idea of not sticking around to ensure her child was fine—of course, Nancy only had one child. Perhaps things were different the second time around.

At the front of the classroom, Ms. Tracey was beginning to assign the children desks. Nancy looked on with a barely suppressed smile as little Roger wound up in front of her own daughter. What a coincidence.

Of course, if Nancy's yoga instructor was to be believed, _there's no such thing_.

* * *

It was just after lunch when Roger felt it.

Before, he had been doing wonderfully. He had obeyed all his father's rules—_talk to other children, listen to the teacher, don't say anything mean_. He had obeyed and enjoyed it. A bunch of other kids had even sat with him in the lunchroom.

But his father hadn't told him what to do if someone began poking him in the back.

This gave young Roger a dilemma: satisfy his curiosity or pay attention to Ms. Tracey? She had just started teaching them about Maths, and Roger was worried about not listening.

Another prod, this time harder. The moment Ms. Tracey's back was turn, Roger looked behind him.

"_What?_" he hissed, but it came out as more of a squeak when he discovered that the prodder was pretty, with dark curly hair in a pink ribbon and wide brown eyes.

_She's a girl!_

"Roger!" Ms. Tracey's voice called and Roger's head snapped back. "Is something wrong?"

Roger swallowed around the lump in his throat. _I don't know this girl, why does she want to get me into trouble? _"No, Miss."

Ms. Tracey nodded and then spun back to the board. The moment she did, the girl poked him again. This time, Roger glanced over his shoulder carefully.

"I'm Maureen," the girl whispered, "And I know you're Roger."

Roger blinked, surprised. "'Kay," he said and faced the front again.

_Poke._

Roger groaned.

"Hey, Roger."

"What?

A pause. "I like your lunchbox."

At this, Roger smiled, and, when afternoon recess rolled around, he shuffled up to her shyly.

"I like your dress, Maureen," he told her quietly. She didn't scowl or roll her eyes or _anything _mean—she giggled a little and thanked him.

In the years to come, neither of them would continue to believe that their first meeting was so…chaste, so _innocent_. And if that had been _that_—if their relationship had ended at liking one another's lunchboxes or dresses—then maybe everything would be different. Maybe _they _would be different. If that had been _that_, maybe neither one of them would have ended up in New York. Maybe they would never have come to know one another.

And then there'd be no story.

But, as it was, that wasn't that. Even though that meeting in first grade wasn't the beginning of their trust for one another, it was the beginning of a tentative and shallow friendship.

And that, in the end, was all it took.


	3. Dear Old Mom And Dad

**Once again, I am writing at preposterous times of the night and once again, I must thank you endlessly for the encouraging reviews I've received. :) This chapter might seem a bit strange, but I'm just trying to set the scene that will eventually lead to our characters becoming the people they are. Also, I revised the last chapter and changed Roger's brother's age; Richie is actually fourteen. And I totally blanked on Maureen's dad's name so I made it up xD**

**Oh, and a note to Beth, if you're still reading: sorry I didn't mention this. I didn't think this would be something you'd be interested in but I'm glad you like the look of it. Don't be mortified!**

* * *

**Dear Old Mom And Dad**

Once upon a time, Maureen Johnson was a girl.

Perhaps, to the people she is now closest to, it is hard to imagine the resident diva having even a scrap of innocence or childish naiveté. Not even she is certain that she could have been that pure. But she had lived a sheltered upbringing, miles away from the filth and dark uncertainty of the City and of life.

How does one grow from a sweet, naïve child to a promiscuous, vain woman?

The answer is obvious—life was never all _that _sheltered. Her parents attempted to make up for their imperfections by convincing her that the concept didn't exist. So, when she learned the truth, it was all that more painful.

All that life needed to do was crash about her ears.

Something both she and Roger Davis would come to have in common.

* * *

_1979_

Maureen sat at the table, her legs swinging mindlessly as she watched her parents sashay into the room. She was eight years old; the world is her oyster. Nancy and Bill Johnson carried themselves with a grace that speaks volumes of a life of good fortune; they were impeccably well-groomed, the very epitome of upper-middle-class. Bill, a banker, dropped an affectionate kiss onto his daughter's head and then brushed by his wife on his way to the fridge. Nancy delicately flinched away, before smiling at Maureen.

"Are you ready for school, honey?" she asked, "Your father will drive you in today."

Maureen nodded her head excitedly, her curls bouncing about her face. She had always been a boisterous child but one that her parents were confident could be controlled. They had been teenagers once; they remembered the need to get everything out of their systems before settling down into a quieter life.

"It's show-and-tell, today!" Maureen announced, "I'm taking in Elsie."

Here, she held up a well-worn stuffed toy—a black and white cow her grandmother had given to her when she was three.

"Great, Maureen," Bill commented distractedly, "I'm sure you'll win."

"Show-and-tell isn't a _competition_," Nancy corrected sternly, before schooling her features into a smile for her daughter's sake. Maureen pursed her lips; of _course_ show-and-tell was a competition, the teachers just didn't realize…

"'Sides, this other kid just got a baby sister, so he's gonna win," she told them grumpily, "Mom, why don't _I_ have a sister? Then I'd always win!"

Nancy laughed, but the sound was weak and forced. Bill paused in the middle of a sip of coffee to glance at her as she struggled to answer.

"Oh, _Mo_…" she said calmly, "Your father and I only wanted one perfect child. And we got her!"

Maureen positively beamed. Bill scoffed and dumped the rest of his coffee down the sink.

Streets away, in a smaller but much more crowded home, Roger stood in a bright pink room, peering over a wooden bar at the small creature inside.

She didn't even look _human_, he noted. All wrinkly and red, her face scrunched up…how could she be his new sister?

"What are you looking at?" came a voice, and Roger's head whipped around to see his father leaning against the doorframe.

"Baby," he replied simply. Gregory chuckled a little and peered into the crib.

"All babies look like that," he assured his youngest son, "Even you looked like that."

Roger wrinkled his nose at that and then leaned further down, just as the baby's eyes popped open. "Uh, hi, Becca," he stated uncertainly. Rebecca stared up at the person above her and then kicked her little legs and gurgled.

Gregory laughed again, this time at Roger's bemused expression, "That's her way of saying hello. Now come on, or you'll be late."

Roger obediently trailed his father out of the room. As they trekked down the landing, Gregory hesitated outside of his and his wife's bedroom, and then glanced at his son.

"Say, Rog?"

"Yeah?"

Gregory's lips quirked, "How about I show you something? Before we leave?"

Roger blinked. It was only eight-thirty—a good half an hour before school started—but his mother hated it when they risked being late. She had always been a stickler for punctuality and accuracy, which he supposed was what made her such a good nurse. Plus, she hadn't been happy lately, which his dad told him was because she wanted to go back to work…but couldn't because Rebecca was only five weeks old.

But his father wanted to show him something and with the new baby and Richie starting to look at colleges, Roger wasn't sure when he'd get a few minutes with his dad alone again.

"Okay," he said and Gregory led him into the room.

After several minutes of rifling around in his closet, Gregory managed to produce the object of his search and Roger's jaw fell open. Clutched in his father's hands was an old, scratched but still impressive guitar.

"_You have a guitar?_"

Gregory nodded brightly, "You bet. This—" here he dropped onto the bed and laid the guitar across his lap, "—is old Rodolfo."

Roger's eyebrow arched. Gregory grinned; he looked _so much _like his mother when he did that.

"Rodolfo?"

"Yup. After a character in an opera. You were sort of named after him."

"Was not!"

Gregory laughed, "Relax, son, I'm kidding. Anyway, the first song I could play on this thing was from that same opera. _Musetta's Waltz _from Puccini's _La boh__è__me_."

Roger looked skeptical, "That sounds…okay."

"It was more than _okay_! It was a good moment for me—second only to you kids being born," Gregory exclaimed, ruffling Roger's hair, "So, anyway, I was thinking…if you were interested, I could teach you it. After school or something. What do you think?"

"Teach me to play _guitar_?" Roger cried excitedly, "Hell yes!"

"Roger. Stop copying your brother."

"Oh, um," the boy grinned sheepishly, "_Heck _yeah."

* * *

_1981_

Maureen huffed as she shoved open the back door of the house and marched dramatically into the kitchen. It was only twenty past three in the afternoon; she should be at band practice but she _hated _it. Her parents insisted it was a good idea for her and that was the only reason she was stuck there.

Maureen is ten years old and already knows she hates the cello.

So she skipped—it was surprisingly easy. She caught the early bus home, ignoring the other band members, and no alarms went off. The world didn't end. Rules weren't _that _hard to break.

Maureen considered calling out for her parents, to let them know she was home. Her mouth was already open before she thought twice.

_And let them know you're skipping band? They'll kill you! Better just go upstairs and hide for a while … maybe practice your music to stop feeling so guilty._

Thoroughly disheartened, Maureen shuffled down the hallway towards her room. She had expected to feel great that she didn't have to do what she didn't want to do. But instead all she could think of was what her mother and father would say. Would they be disappointed? Angry? Upset? Oh _no_!

_Creak_.

Maureen froze. That definitely was not her.

She wondered briefly if the walls were just contracted, before a second sound—_thump!_—made her jump out of her skin. _Oh no—someone's…oh no!...in the house!_

"Mom?" she tried to yell but it came out in a scared whimper. _Dammit!_ She was usually so loud—her teachers couldn't make her shut up—and _now _her voice chose to become quiet?

A third creak and Maureen realized the sound was coming from her parents' bedroom. Anxiously and against her better judgment, she edged towards the door, her mind screaming at her every step of the way.

_If it's a burglar, they'll kill you! You'll die and then you'll never get famous or act or sing or get married or have kids or or or or or—_

As slowly as she could, Maureen pushed open the door. The room was dark, the blinds drawn, but she could just make out the figures of a man and woman—_cuddling_—on the bed. Her fear fell away into total confusion.

The woman became aware of the light from the hall and groaned a little, one silhouetted arm lifting to rub her eyes. "Close the door, Mo," her mother's drowsy voice murmured, "Mommy's sleeping."

Maureen didn't move. Instead, her eyes flickered to the other figure's. He was close, close enough to touch if she took another step and reached out—this room always had been small but Maureen hadn't noticed until now.

"Daddy?" she asked, her voice wavering. The man didn't respond; instead, he stretched out one long, hairy leg and pushed the door with his toe, closing it in Maureen's face.

Not Daddy, she realized. Really not Daddy. She was ten but by no means stupid. She had seen TV, seen movies enough to know what a boyfriend was. That wasn't her mother's husband but her mother's boyfriend.

Suddenly, Maureen did feel quite so bad about band practice.

* * *

_1983_

Twelve is a crappy age, Maureen decided. You weren't a teenager but you weren't a kid either. What the hell _were _you?

The girls in her class were either one or the other. Some still had flat chests, narrow hips and boyish figures. The others were developing; curves, wider hips, round prominent breasts. Maureen was caught somewhere in between—her chest was still tragically flat but her figure was beginning to take shape. It was the same for the guys. Some had deeper voices, broader shoulders. Others didn't.

What was very different was that Maureen was starting to notice. _Both _changes. Weird.

"Hey,"

She glanced up—from her position sitting against the wall of the school hallway, jean-clad legs stretched in front of her—to see one of the boys in her class. One of the lucky ones with the broader shoulder. He was cute—dark blonde hair flopping into green eyes, a curved nose and thin, smiling lips, a dark red button-up undone over black rock-n-roll t-shirt and old jeans. Strapped on his back was a guitar case.

"You play?" she asked, skipping the formalities altogether as she tried to recall his name. She was certain he'd been at her school for years—perhaps since the start.

"A little. I sort of have practice now," he replied, "I was just gonna ask what you were doing in the middle of the hall."

She blinked and then scoffed, "Why not? Is it _your _hall?"

He smiled and she couldn't help but notice the way his face lit up. (_Oh fuck, _dimples_…_) "Nah but I kinda don't want to trip. So…"

He nudged her legs pointedly and, against her will, she obediently folds them.

"Good to know chivalry ain't dead," she remarked dryly and the boy arched an eyebrow.

"Whatever," he replied, "Aren't you gonna go home, Maureen?"

"So _you _know _me_, buuuut…"

The boy rolls his eyes, "It's Roger."

Roger. Oh, _now _she remembered! "You beat me at show-and-tell in the third grade!"

Roger laughed, "You bet I did."

There was a pause as Maureen stared up at him and Roger scuffed his trainers awkwardly. Maureen couldn't help but wonder if, beyond the initial shyness, they had a lot in common. According to his shirt, they at least had similar tastes in music.

"I'm not going home," she said suddenly, "cos I hate it."

Roger looked surprise. Maureen couldn't blame him.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not your fault," she replied, pulling a face, "I just needed to say something."

"Oh."

A pause.

"I wish I knew _what _to say."

"It's okay. My house is just a bit divided right now and I don't like it. You wouldn't know."

Roger looked worried, torn between leaving her and sitting down beside her. Maureen sighed and made the choice for him.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Will I find you here in your sleeping bag?"

"Ha-ha, a smartass," she smiled, the first proper one in a while, "Go to your lesson, Davis."

He nodded and turned. She watched him go for a moment, before standing and dusting off. He had a point: she might end up staying the night and she didn't exactly want to.

The next day, she waited in the hallway for him to appear. She wanted to ask him about that shirt of his; ask him what music he liked, what music he played. It had been a while since she'd had a real conversation that didn't consist of _Oh, I'm sorry! _or _I heard about your parents… _or _If you ever need to talk…_ and frankly, she realized, she needed it.

He never showed.

_Whatever_, she thought, moodily storming into the cafeteria at lunchtime, _He was just some stupid rock star wannabee. I don't even know the loser._

_Doesn't change the fact that he actually spoke to me like a human being…_

"Hey, Keira," she called, tapping the shoulder of the closest thing she had to a best friend. Keira was blonde and blue-eyed, one of the "developed" girls. She was pretty and Maureen liked her but most of their conversations seemed one-sided: Keira would talk about Keira and Maureen would talk about Maureen and they would never get anyway. They were in separate classes, so they didn't hang out much—but Keira was in _Roger's _class.

"Hey, Mo," Keira grinned, "What's up?"

"You seen that guy around today?" Maureen asked, "Roger Davis? You know him?"

"The blonde guy?" Keira clarified, gesturing with one hand, "The cute one? He's not in today."

"Sick?"

Keira shook her head, "I don't know. The teacher told us he wasn't in cause of family stuff…"

Maureen furrowed her brow confusedly, ignoring the worry pressing down on her gut like a stone, "Family stuff? Like what?"

Keira bit her lip and looked around hesitantly. Then, she leant in conspiratorially and murmured, "Don't tell anyone I said this but…I think his dad died last night."


	4. From This Nightmare

**I was a bit disheartened to only get two reviews for the last chapter but I won't moan about it. I just want to get back to writing—I've missed it these last few weeks! Luckily, school is beginning to wind down; we only have about a week left, so soon I'll be free to write and sleep … like, a lot. :) By the way, I remembered Maureen's dad's name from the movie. But I thought up a new development: Bill, the guy in the last chapter, is her **_**natural **_**father but Ed, a.k.a movie!Dad is her **_**stepfather**_**. So, technically, I wasn't wrong … and I totally don't have issues with being wrong either. ;) And sorry I ramble so much both here and at the start of the chapter. This was supposed to include so much more stuff but it got long and I decided we could get to Roger's turmoil next time.**

**One final note: I am considering—**_**considering**_**—changing the rating of this story to M. Just because the language might get bad (I picture Maureen and Roger to be the type to say "fuck" a **_**lot**_**) and soon drugs and suicide will be introduced and other horrible things … I might even think about—depending on how brave I feel-…sex scenes. Now I feel weird just for mentioning it. xD But you have to let me know what you think!**

* * *

**From This Nightmare**

To understand the full extent of what Roger Davis went through when he was a teenager, first, you would need to know one thing.

Gregory Davis was a lucky man. He thought it was fate that, aged fifteen, he had set his sights on becoming a doctor instead of a priest like his father, because it was in medical school that he met Alexandra Cook, a brilliant young nurse and his future wife. They married quickly and, six months later, Alex gave birth to Richard, their first son. Richard was a blessing—a good child, who rarely cried or threw a fit if his parents had to work overtime and he needed to stay at his grandparents' for a few extra hours. Blue-eyed and blonde-haired, he grew up to be intelligent and witty, charming and good-natured. Alex quickly decided he was worth putting her career on hold for a few months, even though she had always been work-oriented and being a mother before she was twenty-five—even before she was _thirty_—had not been part of the plan. With their careers, their home and their son, Gregory knew that he and his wife had a happy life.

Then, when Richie was eight, Alex got pregnant again. She was _furious_—she had just become head nurse and Greg was still finishing up his residency. She even thought of termination—_we can't handle a second kid now, Greg, maybe in a few years!_—but Greg convinced her to keep the baby because maybe this was fate again.

Whereas Richie was sharp and ambitious like his mother, Roger was just like his father. He was creative, awkward around stranger, handsome but stubborn. Greg adored all his children—when Rebecca was born another eight years later, he was wrapped around her finger from day one—but _Roger _… he saw a lot of potential in the boy. The potential to step outside the box their families had unintentionally constructed—Roger would be a caged bird in the clergy or medicine or business. So, naturally, Greg nurtured his talent. When Roger showed an interest in music, he was over the moon and taught his son everything he knew. Roger threw himself into it passionately; he attended lessons with his father and the school music teacher, he practiced every night and, when he was twelve, he joined the school band. They mostly played classical music and rarely actually played shows or entered competitions, which frustrated him, but it gave him a chance to connect with other musicians. His love of music was shared with his father, thus created a stronger bond between them than most would find between a father and son.

That year, Roger left one band practise feeling at ease. It was three-forty-five—their session that day had mostly been talking amongst themselves and showing off their skills because Mr. Freeman, the music teacher, was absent that day. As he strode toward the front entrance, Roger glanced at the lockers down the right side of the hall. That girl, Maureen, had left, he realized with a pang of disappointment. _Shame … she'd seemed pretty cool. And hot too. Meh; maybe we'll meet up tomorrow._

A few short years ago, the idea of wanting to hang out with girls had disgusted Roger; they were exotic and strange and talked about _weird _things. But now he was on the cusp of adulthood and girls were no longer frightening. In fact, all the talks his father and twenty-year-old brother had given him about _girls _and _relationships_ and _s-e-x _had fascinated him.

"Roger!" his father's voice shattered his thought process, "Where the _hell _have you been?"

Roger blinked, confused, "I had—"

"I've been waiting here for _half-a-fucking-hour_!" Greg snarled, grabbing his son's elbow and heaving him to the car, "I promised your mother we'd be home early—she had the fucking late shift, Roger, and now she's gonna be late!"

At this, anger and confusion and teenage hormones swelled in Roger's chest; _so now everything is my fault? _He wrenched away from his father.

"How the hell was I meant to know that? It wasn't my—!"

That is all Roger remembers of his fight with his father. The last conversation he ever had with his father. In the next few days, he'd hear enough about what happened to fill in the blanks: his father had not been paying attention to the road; he had not seen the red light or the other car. His side had taken most of the force but Roger had still come out with a concussion, which may have wiped some of his memory of the accident.

Roger would never know what he did to break his father's concentration.

The next thing he remembers is waking up in the bright white hospital room and thinking, _Fuck, my eyes…_. His mother had been next to the bed, Richie stood in the corner—which really concerned him because Richie was meant to be studying business in Pennsylvania. Both had red-rimmed, puffy eyes but while Alex looked distant and devastated, Richie was stoic, his jaw clenched in fury and grief. Becca was curled up on a chair, her red-brown hair clipped out of his face and her green eyes fixated on her Barbie doll.

"Where am I?" Roger slurred. Becca was the only one to react obviously; she looked up and blinked.

"Hoppital," she lisped, frowning, "Hothpital. Hos…pit…"

"Hospital," Alex corrected quietly. Roger glanced at her, suddenly worried. His head pounded and his guitar—his school stuff—his _dad _was nowhere to be found.

"What happened?" he demanded, trying to sit up, "Where's—"

"You were in a car accident," Alex murmured, still staring away except at Roger. Richie had yet to speak.

"But _where's Dad_?" cried Roger and Alex flinched, "Am I okay? Is he? Guys—"

"He's dead," Richie snarled. Alex cringed again, Becca's head shot up to look at him and Roger's eyes widened.

"What—?"

"Dad—is—dead," Richie repeated slowly, as though Roger was stupid, "Get it? The crash _killed _him, Roger. He went about an hour ago."

The strength leaked out of Roger's arms and he collapsed back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. _Dead._ They had been arguing … Roger had been late … and … and … _Dad's dead_.

"He's dead," Richie repeated, his voice wavering with anger and tears, "And you're alive. God, you hardly have a scratch _on _you. Where's the logic in that? Where's the fucking _justice?_"

"Richie…" Alex hissed, her shining eyes snapping up to him. Richie ignored her and stormed from the room, the door shutting hard behind him. The slam was loud—_too fucking loud_—to Roger and he lifted his hands to his ears.

_Slam crash scream Dad's dead no logic no justice your fault hardly scratched late late band practice happy happy laughter angry fighting angry hating angry angry sorry dead crash dead dead dead dead Dad_

"Shut up," Roger begged his mind as tears clouded his vision, "Please, shut up…"

He wondered if this was fate (_Dad was a huge believer in fate_), if Dad would still be here if he hadn't gone to practice or they hadn't started arguing. He was vaguely aware of his mother standing shakily, of Becca tucking her Barbie in the crook of his arm and kissing his cheek, commenting that her doll would help him sleep. The hard plastic edges of it stabbed into his bicep and he wondered as he fell into a uneasy slumber whether his father had been in pain.

_Please shut up..._

To understand the full extent of what Roger Davis went through when he was a teenager, first, you would need to know one thing:

Where Gregory Davis was a lucky man, Roger Davis was not.


	5. I Love Being A Wreck

**Sorry this is so rushed. I'm going to be in another country this weekend so I thought I should update now just so I don't itch to be doing it in England. Thanks for the comments, guys—you're really getting me back into the groove of writing!**

**Warning: TIME SKIP. It has been a little over a year since the setting of the last chapter.**

**I'm sure I'm going to get some reaction about the ages of the people involved, as a bunch of thirteen years old are acting terribly grown up in this chapter, so I would like to say these: A—nowadays, kids are running around with mobile phones and make-up (I have kids **_**the year below me **_**doing more shit than me!) and trying to grow up too quickly so I can see why these characters might as well. B—My Roger and Maureen have been through severe personal turmoil so they would obviously feel more adult than their classmates as they've been exposed to things some adults couldn't face. Also, I can see them trying to hide their pain in rebelling. C—I'm sorry if anyone has any problems with this chapter.**

**Oh and nobody mentioned the ratings question so I'll keep it safe … for now. ;) Thanks again! Apologies to Diet Coke…I don't own that, **_**RENT**_** or…anything, for that matter.**

* * *

**I Love Being A Wreck**

"She's my daughter, Nancy!"

"Don't yell, Bill—"

"_My _daughter, not his! He's just the asshole you decided to fuck when you weren't—!"

"_Don't _talk about Ed that way! And calm down!"

"No, I _won't _calm down!"

Maureen sighed and thumped her head back against the wall. She drew her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them, staring at the old family picture hung on the wall opposite.

They were fighting again. Always fucking _fighting_.

"The judge said that _I _got her this weekend! You're being unreasonable!"

"She doesn't want to go, Bill! Did you ever consider that?"

"Merry Christmas," Maureen muttered to herself.

_December23rd 1984, 5:30 p.m._

"Go and get her, Nancy! Go and ask her yourself rather than—!"

"Eddie, would you…?"

Maureen listened to the series of footsteps on the stairs, down the hall and eventually up to her room. Concentrating on them drowned out the sound of her parents' argument which, in her young eyes, was a Godsend.

The door creaked open and a mousy-haired head poked through. "You heard?"

"These walls are seriously fucking thin."

Her mother's boyfriend sighed and stepped in, closing the door. He did not tell her not to swear; he did not see her as a child, certainly not _his _child, but a young girl who was going to disregard any orders he gave her. In a strange way, he respected her; for that, she begrudgingly respected him.

"I'm sorry about that," he threw out regretfully, "I tried telling your dad you weren't well, but he…you know."

Maureen smirked bitterly, "Cussed you out? He hates you, man."

Despite himself, Ed smiled, "Mmm-hmm. Maureen, why don't you just _go_?"

Maureen pressed her lips together and looked down at her feet. How could she possibly explain to her—_stepfather? mother's boyfriend? roommate?_—Ed how badly she _could not _go to her father's house for Christmas? How badly she could not bear to wander around the home she grew up in, reminded of all the memories and good times now tainted because all the time, her parents had not been happy? How badly she did not want her father to invite over _Fiona_, to have them make this holiday a special family time? How badly she could not bear to watch them try when all she wanted was to curl up and be left alone—something her mother and Ed would grant her if she pushed hard enough?

It was selfish but she would rather fake being sick than spend her first Christmas since the divorce with her well-intentioned father. God, what kind of bitch was she?

"Oh, _Edddddd_," she moaned and wrapped her arms around her stomach, "I feel _awwwfuuulll_."

To her ears, her voice was shaky and flat, her words pathetic and oh so hollow, but Ed seemed convinced; he nodded grimly and then turned and left the room. She could hear him murmuring to her mother and father as they finally quieted down and then a second set of _thump_s as her father made his way up the stairs.

"Daaaddddyyyyy," she wailed before the door even opened, "Daddy, it _hurts_…"

Any fury or irritation Bill may have felt drained away at the sight of her baby girl writhing in pain on the bed. He hurriedly kneeled at her bedside, brushing the hair away from her face, "Oh, pumpkin, I'm sorry you don't feel well."

Maureen could have cried at the heartbreaking disappointment on her father's face. _See me, Daddy, see that I'm faking, can't you see?_

"Oh, Dad, I'm sorrier. I ruined Christmas!"

Here, she used the lump already clogging her throat to squeeze out a few tears. Bill looked alarmed and shook his head.

"No, sweetheart, it's not your fault! You're in no state to move anywhere. You can stay here and get better. Fiona and I will be fine without you if you're sick, darling. You just stay here with your mom and Ed."

His face darkened at the mention of his ex-wife and her lover almost as much as Maureen's did at the mention of Fiona.

"You sure, Daddy?" she asked faintly.

"Of course!" he smiled, "I'll see you next weekend … if you're better."

"I will be, Daddy. You can count on it."

Maureen clamped her eyes and attempted to even her breathing, until Bill was certain she had drifted to sleep. She sensed him stand and leave the room and her heart cried out for him just as the front door slammed. After a moment, she sat up and rubbed her eyes, heaving a sigh into her hands.

_Not bad_, she thought cynically, _Maybe after Christmas, I'll sign up for the drama club._

* * *

Maureen would not turn fourteen until February but already felt eons older than most of her classmates. The spring semester started—during the first week, the drama club sign-up sheet was pinned up and the first signature was in Maureen's handwriting. She had remembered her promise to herself and thought that it would be a laugh. It would also get her out of the house more, onto the stage more and would be a shock for the head of the club, Mrs. Sylvester, who had been Maureen's sixth grade nemesis.

She was surprised to learn that there were some talented kids in the drama club (as well as some _real _amateurs) and that they were kind to her; her social life really began to improve. Mrs. Sylvester was the first to tell her that she simply _shone _on stage and performance arts were in her future. The other girls, those who had been in the club since the start of the year and the top of the school food chain for even longer, began to give her tips on clothes and make-up and—_oh shit_—boys.

"Jesus!" she'd exclaimed when that taboo word was first brought up, "Aren't we sort of young for that?"

The girls had tittered a little and shook their heads patronizingly.

"_Really_, Maureen!" Ellen giggled, "They're just _boys_!"

Yasmine nodded, "You swear like a sailor but you're afraid of a few guys?"

"Not afraid! I'm not afraid of fu—" Maureen had caught herself, "—ricking anything!"

But still, Maureen had shied away from that particular topic … until one particular incident in early March. It was three o'clock, the end of the day, and a just-fourteen-years-old Maureen had just left the bathroom. Dressed now in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, she went to her locker and stuffed inside the skirt and tank top she had snuck into school that morning. _What Mom doesn't know won't hurt her. _

On her way out, Maureen had to pass an old janitor's closet, which she wasn't sure was even in use anymore. She was so transfixed on pulling shut the half-broken zip on her book bag that she almost missed the giggle from within.

_What the…?_

If Maureen had not been, well, Maureen, perhaps she would never have opened that door and would never have had her life lead her to where she is now. As it is, Maureen would be the first to tell you that she is too curious for her own good and, even though she wouldn't realize it for some time, caused the event that would alter her life significantly.

She didn't even bother pressing her ear to the wood or knocking. She just opened it.

"_Ohmigod!_"

The first thing Maureen thought was _Ohhhh, shit_. The second was _Déjà vu… _as, for the second time in her short life, she had caught in the act two people doing what they shouldn't.

"Keira?" she called confusedly as she watched her former friend untangle herself from the boy's embrace. Keira's blouse was rumpled and her make-up smudged but she was still basically intact.

"Oh—um—Maureen!" she stammered and chanced a look at the boy, whose lips were red and eyes wide. Maureen felt surprise hit her like a pile of rocks.

_Guitar boy?_

"We were just…" Keira began, gesticulating between her and the boy—_Roger, his name was Roger_—before stuffing her hands into her pockets, "I have to go!"

She shot a dreamy smile at Roger and then bolted past the stunned Maureen and down the hall. Roger wiped his mouth carelessly with the back of his hand and then moved as though to exit the closet. A tight grip on his arm made him pause.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Maureen growled, completely forgetting anything her new friends had told her.

"Making out in a closet?" Roger replied hostilely and jerked his arm out of Maureen's grip. Maureen would be lying if she said she wasn't surprised. He _looked_ the same as Roger she had met—his clothes were the same—all that was missing was the guitar. Yet the way he looked at her (his green eyes not concerned and friendly but cold and angry) was totally … different.

The last time she had seen him had been over a year ago, at the start of seventh grade. Maureen remembered talking to him, remembered asking Keira why he had not been at school the next day. She remembered after what happened, many kids, including Maureen, took to giving him a wide berth for a while, as though a dead father was contagious. The gossip didn't help; the students talked, suggesting that he was mad with grief, he had taken it so badly that he had been sent to a school out of the country, he _killed _his father. At some point, things had returned back to normal but by then he and Maureen travelled in different circles; they didn't even have the same classes.

And this—_this?_—was how they were supposed to reunite?

"She's my friend, asshole!" Maureen retorted and, for some reason, felt tears sting her eyes, "What do you think making her look like a fucking slut is gonna do? Make _you _look good?"

Roger scoffed, "Yeah, right, like _you're _above all that."

Before Maureen could think of a comeback, he had stormed out of the closet.

* * *

School the next day was the same. Maureen arrived at school well-covered and then dashed into the bathroom and emerged in shorts and a too-small t-shirt. She milled about with the drama girls at lunch and in breaks and gazed in boredom out of the window in lessons. After classes ended, she crept back into the bathroom to change.

As she walked out of the building into the grounds, Maureen became aware of a figure perched on the steps, head tilted back and eyes closed. Roger was wearing a leather jacket today, Maureen noted—and had a hipflask clasped in his hands.

Curiosity once again got the better of Maureen and she edged over to where he sat. Part of her was still mad for yesterday—_fuck knows why, he's fourteen, he's not my friend, and I don't give a shit. _But she watched as a piece of dark blonde hair fell away from his face and could not help but wonder if his family had screwed him up as much as hers had.

"You're blocking my sun," he said but it was half-heartedly. Rather than move (_yeah, move all the way back down the road and home, away from _him_!_), Maureen sat, close enough that their shoulders were pressed together.

After a moment of silence, Roger cracked open an eye and then offered her the hipflask.

"No way!" she exclaimed, horrified—as much as drinking tempted her, she wasn't sure she could go home smelling of whiskey. Besides, they were seven years too young and her parents would be quick to point that out as they grounded her.

"Relax; it's my brother's," said Roger, lifting his head and frowning. Maureen scoffed.

"And _that _makes it okay?"

"It is if he already drained it and I filled it up with _Coke_," Roger deadpanned and Maureen suddenly felt very foolish. _I guess scoring in closets doesn't make him a badass_, a voice in her head reasoned as she took the flask.

"Ugh, this is Diet."

"It's crap but I make do."

Maureen took another swig and sighed, "I'm sorry."

"S'okay," Roger grumbled, "It'll be our secret."

"Yours, mine and Keira's," Maureen pointed out and if Roger detected the bitter note in her voice, he didn't mention it.

"I don't usually do stuff like that," he told her after a pause, "I don't. I just…"

"Then why?"

Roger shrugged, suddenly distant, "Felt like it."

Maureen rolled her eyes but didn't comment. After a moment, she asked, "Is it your dad?"

Roger's eyes flashed and he turned to Maureen with a furious glare, "What _about _my dad?"

Maureen pursed her lips. _Smooth move, dumbass. _"Nothing. I—"

"_Fuck _nothing," he responded and Maureen cringed, "Just say it. _No-one _mentions my dad for _nothing _nowadays."

Maureen scowled, "Now it all makes sense."

"What does?"

"Why _you're _so fucked up!"

"You hardly know me!"

"I know enough!" Maureen screeched, "I know that you used to be a nice guy! You were on the band, you have a sister and a brother, your grades were good and then your dad dies and suddenly you're the school's _bad boy_? Give me a break!"

"What the hell do you know about it?" Roger demanded. Maureen wondered if maybe she was pushing him a little too far but then his eyes glinted again—_fuck he looks sad_—and she realized that maybe they both needed this.

"My parents split up," Maureen replied in a small voice, "I barely see my dad anymore and my mom doesn't give a shitwhat I do—she doesn't even notice that I take a change of clothes to school. It's not the same as one of them dying but at least you knew he gave a damn about you."

"You're comparing my dad _dying _to Mommy and Daddy breaking up?" Roger said mockingly. Maureen's fists clenched in white anger.

"Fine!" she snapped, launching to her feet so quickly she almost overbalanced, "Be an ass! I was just trying to be nice to you, Roger, but you know what? Fuck you!"

And she attempted to walk off but unfortunately, her heel chose that moment to get stuck in a crack in the stair. She wobbled dangerously before abruptly collapsing onto Roger's lap, knocking him back and winding them both.

"Fuck!" she shrieked, embarrassed and furious and then she's suddenly _crying_ and a hand is on her back, rubbing hesitantly as her body is wracked with sobs she hadn't even realized were building up.

"Shit, shit, shit," she moaned, her voice muffled by Roger's trouser leg, "_Fuck_, I'm sorry…"

"It's okay," came the gruff reply. After a minute, Maureen worked up the courage to sit up and wipe her face. Roger was looking at her but no longer angrily—he looked at her with a strange mix of sympathy, understanding and _respect_.

"Guess your parents screwed you up worse than mine," he commented blankly and Maureen chuckled breathlessly. After a few seconds, he awkwardly returned the smile.

"Look at us!" Maureen exclaimed, dramatically throwing out her arms, "The two great fucking wrecks! How do we ever get fixed?"

There was a silence, and then a hand gently rested on her shoulder.

"Well, then," Roger murmured, "Maybe here's a good place to start."


	6. No Such Thing As Tragedy

**I was a bit disheartened to only get ONE review last chapter, to be honest. I mean, I appreciate that one hugely and I don't plan on keeping any chapters hostage for reviews, but if you are reading, a comment or piece of advice would be lovely. As it is, I went to see a film called **_**Shutter Island **_**today—t'was a pretty great movie, which made me realize that A—There are worse things in life than not getting many reviews … , B—It was fairly depressing, which reminded me that I have two rather depressed characters occupying my imagination :) and C—Leonardo DiCaprio ain't bad on the eyes. But that's irrelevant. I decided to indulge my inspiration and write some more. =D**

**This chapter is set fairly soon after the last one, and is mostly focused on the build-up of Roger and Maureen's relationship, as well as Roger's family life. I think I've decided that the chapters will alternate POVs; in the last one, it was Maureen so this one should mostly be shown through Roger's eyes. So, yeah. Enjoy!**

**P.S. Sorry the title is not centred - the damn thing would not work. :)**

**

* * *

****No Such Thing As Tragedy**

"Roger, honey?"

Despite himself, Roger cringed. For once, he was not doing anything wrong; he did not have enough time to think of anything before his mother walked in. He was on his bed, his trusty old guitar in hand and feeling slightly more like himself today.

"I've got to go into work quickly."

"It's your day off."

"I know … it's an emergency. Watch Becca for me."

Roger sighed, plucked the E string on his guitar hard. "Sure."

"Okay. If Richie calls—"

"Won't pick up the phone. Got it."

"Roger—"

"Got it."

It was Alexandra's turn to sigh as she eyed her youngest son forlornly, "He's trying, Roger."

He ignored her, instead opting to pull on the D string. Too little, too late.

"You'll look after your sister?"

"Yup. But a friend's coming over later so…"

Worry etched into his mother's face, "A … friend?"

Briefly, Roger wondered what images she conjured in her mind. Scantily clad girls wearing bright lipstick smiles and brandishing beer bottles? Thuggish older boys with battle scars and hoods pulled over their faces, waving little baggies and lighters and syringes in the air? His _bookie_? He had no doubt that these sprang to her mind, given his recent behavior.

"Yeah," he replied and almost hated himself when he felt the familiar hot roll of satisfaction in the pit of his stomach at the sight of her stricken face.

"Well … have fun."

"You too," he said patronizingly and watched as she vanished from his doorway. He waited until he heard the car pull away from the driveway before pushing his guitar towards his pillows, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and burying his face in his hands.

* * *

"Have you ever had sex?"

Roger looked up sharply from his quilt and glared at Maureen, "What kind of question is _that_?"

She smirked, leaning against his bedpost as though she had been here a thousand times, "All the girls at drama club are wondering."

Roger wrinkled his nose, "Why the fuck do girls wanna know?"

"Are you surprised? What do you expect?"

She had a point, Roger had to concede. His new reputation was not exactly the shiniest. "Nope."

"What, _never_? Cos you looked pretty comfortable in the closet at school…?"

"Are all our conversations going to end up about that?" Roger demanded.

"Mmm, probably."

He sighed, "That was just kissing. Making out. Fooling around. Nothing heavy."

"Could have been," Maureen pointed out.

"Maybe. Or not. I don't know!" he scowled at her, "I don't even _like _Keira enough to … do _that_."

Maureen looked a little confused there, a little outraged, "Then why do it? If you don't even _like _her? Jeez, doesn't she deserve better?"

"Christ, Maureen, maybe _you _oughta fuck her."

There was an awkward pause.

"I'm not gay," Maureen replied coolly, sitting up and brushing imaginary dust off of her leggings.

"I didn't say you were," argued Roger, folding his arms. Another silence.

"I did it to piss my mom off," Roger eventually admitted when he could stand the quiet no longer. Maureen stared at him, baffled.

"Does she even know?"

"Mom? Hell no. But I _wanted _her to find out. I figured, maybe the principal will catch us and we'll get in trouble …"

"You want to get in trouble?" Maureen repeated, looking a little sympathetic, "Those are long lengths to go to to get some attention from Mommy."

"I'm not _attention-seeking_," Roger snarled, "It's just that when I do something wrong, she gets upset."

"You're _trying_ to make your mother sad?" Maureen didn't look sympathetic anymore—more shocked, "That's kind of sick."

"I know."

"_Really_ sick."

Roger pulled a face, "I _know_. And I know I should stop but then I think about…"

He trailed off and returned to picking at the bed covers, looking decently miserable. Downstairs, Becca was watching something on television and giggling loudly. Maureen cocked her head and inched closer to Roger.

"I don't go out of my way to upset my parents," she told him, nudging him teasingly, "But I get it. When I piss my mom off, there's something damn good about it. Cos she's ruined my family and hauled me off to live with a new father, so a failed test or sex in the supply closet won't upset her half as much as what she did upset me."

Roger's lips twitched and he lifted his head to meet Maureen's eyes. She gave him an understanding smile and pulled her knees up to her chest.

"They said it's my fault Dad died," he said quietly. He could not see Maureen's reaction but she was still, mute.

"Well, Richie did," Roger amended, "And Mom … I don't think she knew what to think. She was really depressed after the accident and then she was so preoccupied with Becca and Richie … cos he was in bad shape after Dad … he got into drinking. That's where I got the flask from. He's better now, at least Mom says so but … I haven't really spoken to him since. And Mom was trying to take care of Becca and Richie and I sort of slipped through the cracks. I thought that acting out would make her notice _I _was hurting to but … I didn't think I was so angry about it."

Roger ended his little speech in a whisper, staring straight ahead at the wall where a family portrait once hung. He was fourteen—how could this much rage and resentment be loaded into him at so young an age? How much frustration and grief could a child possibly bear? He had been stranded, _isolated_, on his own little island for two hazy years and had thought that he was alone for so long.

A few centimeters and miles of distance away, an unlikely person threw him some aid. Maureen reached across and grabbed his hand.

"_What's meant to be will be_," she recited, turning his hand over and lacing their fingers together.

"You what?"

She grinned, "My nana told me that after my parents separated. She said that's the way life works—you can't get mad at what you're given cos it was always meant to happen."

Roger allowed himself to smile, "Then you have no reason to be fucked up."

"Pfft, I didn't say I _listened _to her."

A weird, somehow cheerful sound erupted from Roger's throat—he was pretty sure it was laughter. "Okay then. But letting go isn't that easy."

"Nope," Maureen agreed heartily, "It's going to suck but eventually I'm going to stop avoiding my dad and you're going to stop pissing your mom off."

"Resolution?"

"Resolution."

They smiled at one another, blissfully unaware that, in the future, tragedy would affect them both again—and resentment would threaten to be their downfall. This moment was shattered by Becca appearing in the doorway, pouting at her big brother.

"Roooggggeeeerrr," she whined, "I'm _bored_."

Roger opened his mouth to tell her to play in her room but Maureen was already on her feet and dragging him up, a childish beam lighting up her pretty face. "Come on, let's go _play_!"

"What the fu—?"

"I don't have a little sister, stupid, and yours will have to do. Hi, sweetie, I'm Maureen!"

Becca stared at her, "Are you Roger's girlfriend?"

Maureen snorted and waggled her eyebrows, "He wishes. Come show me your toys, cutie."

An exuberant Becca led the way, followed by an equally excited Maureen and a less-than-amused Roger trailing behind. Maureen lingered to join him at his side.

"By the way," she began seriously before grinning mischievously, "I'm a virgin too."

"Shut up."


	7. Like Girls And Horses

**Thank you so much for the reviews, guys! I felt really bad after I kind of had a hissy fit last chapter but I really really really REALLY do appreciate your comments. :) Anyway, I'm updating now because today and tomorrow I'm saying goodbye to some friends who are leaving to live in Japan (TT-TT) and packing and then I'm leaving on Sunday for about a month so this will be the last you hear from me in a while. This story won't be abandoned, just on a break while I'm away so I **_**will **_**be back. :D Unfortunately, this isn't my best work but hopefully still likeable. Again, the FREAKING CENTRE ALIGN WON'T WORK so I apologise.**

**In random news, in the past four/five days, I watched all the episodes of **_**Glee**_**…which is weird because I vowed to myself that I wouldn't for the sole reason that everyone else **_**was**_**. But it was that that reminded me of this. My thought process was literally "Mmm, Will Schuester … Will and Shelby … Idina Menzel … Maureen. **_**Maureen**_**. SHIIIIT." Haha! Apologies for my second time skip; it's been _another _year! Also, this chapter deals heavily with a realization about a character's sexuality. I tried to be as careful as possible about the actual coming-to-terms of it but I apologise if I offend anyone who feels I insulted them or it was not handled delicately enough. I understand that not everyone shares my views and I am sorry if I say something that you take offence to.**

**Otherwise, enjoy!**

**

* * *

****Like Girls And Horses**

_1986_

Of all the thoughts Maureen could have thought, _Roger is going to kill me_ was probably not the one to think.

For one thing, having her best friend and his damn cocky grin pop into her head at a time like _this _was incredibly disconcerting. She could just hear his laughter, hear his comment about her taking his leftovers. She wondered if he would be genuinely hurt, if he would hate her for what she was doing. Surely something was to be said about the fact that his reaction terrified her more than her own parents'.

She did not give a shit about her mother and father, or their opinions. But she gave a shit about Roger.

"Wait," she tried to say, but the words were muffled against Keira's lips and the girl only took advantage of Maureen's opened mouth to—_oh God…_

"Fuck, Keira, wait."

Firmly and reluctantly, Maureen pushed against Keira's shoulders, putting a good six inches of space between their faces. Keira's chest heaved as she panted and Maureen wished she had not noticed.

"I have to go," Maureen squeaked and slipped out from between Keira and her locker. Keira stared at her.

"_Go?_"

"Yeah, um," Maureen wracked her mind for an excuse—_one for leaving or one for what you just did? _"It's, er, my mom. She wants me home to … um, yeah."

_What the fuck kind of actress are you?_, she thought and she could see that Keira was thinking the same. However, the blonde did not protest as Maureen righted her clothing and shot one final despairing look at her former friend.

"Sorry," she added before darting down the hall as quickly as she could. She could feel Keira's eyes burning holes into her back.

Maureen was, by no means, inexperienced. Her confidence had grown startlingly quickly in the past few years; she had kissed quite a few boys and even let one slide a hand up her shirt once. She was fifteen now, after all, and compared to some people, all she had done was rather innocent.

But girls were different. Maureen had not kissed a girl before. Maureen did not even _like _girls. She couldn't! Her mother and father and stepfather all talked about how she would make a man happy one day. If she came home waxing poetic about a new love, a _lady _love, they would hate her. They would kick her out and never want to see her again and despite everything, Maureen did not want that. And _Keira_…

Maureen felt her heart thump—and it had nothing to do with the running. It was a sensation that had long been associated with that girl but Maureen had attributed it to a deep liking, not … lust or infatuation or anything like that. Because Maureen was not gay.

_A lesbian_, she corrected herself, _The word's lesbian…but _I'm _not a…I can't be! Fuck fuck fuck, I am so dead._

Beyond the turmoil in her mind, Maureen realized one thing as she rested her back against the wall of the school, half-wheezing and half-sobbing.

She needed to talk to Roger.

* * *

Roger had become much more experienced in the area of girls and sex in the past few years. Rumours still circulated about how rebellious he really was and it seemed Maureen was the only person he trusted enough to talk to seriously. She was the only person to know that, aged fifteen, he had started a band with a junior and two seniors at their school—a real rock and roll band, of which he was lead guitarist. Only she knew that that he had had sex with one of his band-mates' sister but had not particularly liked the girl or the place or the general experience. Only she knew that some part of him wished he'd waited for a better time with a better girl, and that was one of his first regrets.

She was his confidant and he was hers, so it made sense that she would tell him everything and he would, of course, reassure her of her sexuality.

"Pfft. I knew you were a lezbo."

"ROGER! What the _fuck?_"

Roger grinned at her lazily from his position perched on her window sill. Her room in her father's house was still kept the way she once liked it—pink and fluffy and all the innocent that Maureen no longer was. It was not Roger's style and, against the white and rose of the walls, he stuck out like a sore thumb with his battered leather jacket and unruly dirty blonde hair.

"_She_ kissed _me_, Rog! Your ex _kissed _me! Why the hell are you so calm? Shouldn't you wanna … I don't know, punch me?"

Roger laughed, shaking his head at her like she was a child, "Gimme a break. I like you more than I like her. Besides, I figured it out _years _ago."

"What?"

"Didn't you notice? You were always hyper-protective of Keira. Going on about how she deserved better than me—thanks, by the way. Either you really like her, or you _really really really _like her."

Maureen just stared. Roger arched an eyebrow.

"What, you didn't realize?"

It seemed that it was then that Roger noticed that Maureen was close to tears. She had her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped protectively around them, and her lowered eyes looked glassy. Out of surprise more than anything, Roger laughed.

"Come here," he said, and stepped down from the window sill, stretching his foot across onto the bed and landing heavily next to Maureen. He pulled her towards him, hugging her tightly as her shoulders started to shake.

"It's stupid," she stated in an unsteady voice, "It's…it's a phase. That's it. Like all little girls going through a princess stage or a pony stage. Mine's just a …"

"Girl stage?" Roger smirked. Maureen's lips turned downward of their own accord.

"You're just scared," Roger told her matter-of-factly, rubbing her back gently, "cos it's new and means things are changing. _You're _changing. Kinda like when you move or get a boyfriend or something. Or girlfriend…"

"I'm. Not. A. Lesbian."

Roger tried to shrug but could only twitch his shoulder in an effort not to disturb his friend, "Fine. Maybe it _is _a stage. Maybe you'll magically stop liking chicks in a few months. Except you've liked Keira for, what, _years _now?"

Maureen stiffened a little before reluctantly nodding against his chest, "I do. _Fuck_, I do."

"Well then. Maybe you're bi," Roger suggested, "I don't know much more than you do. Isn't it depressing that I know as much about you as _you _do?"

Maureen's lips quirked.

"I guess it is," she whispered. It occurred to her that she could listen to Roger's heartbeat in her current position and she wondered fleetingly who it would someday belong to. Who _hers _would someday belong to. She closed her eyes and tried to picture it.

"Does it freak you out?" she asked, "Me being … whatever I am?"

"Not really. It's just the way you were made; you didn't _ask _for this … not that, you know, it's anything bad," Roger reddened a little at his slip, "There's nothing wrong with it. Love's love, Mo…"

Almost shyly, Maureen lifted her head to meet his gaze. He smirked again and tapped her nose.

"…and if you like 'em, that's good enough for me."

Maureen's heart pounded, even though Keira had not crossed her mind.

_Bisexual. _Attraction to men _and _women. Maureen pondered as she wiped the last remnants of tears from her eyes and then felt her mouth twist into a small smile again.

"Does this mean my odds of finding someone are _double _what yours are?" she grinned and Roger reeled back, his expression shifting into mock-shock.

"Oh, you went there."

* * *

Just because Roger thought it did not make it true. Not everyone thought that love should just be love, regardless of gender, and that discovery sickened Maureen just a little. It was not even as though she had been downright attacked—of course not, only Roger knew the truth about her orientation!—but the one person who had led her to her realization was the girl now attempting to backpedal, as though hoping was enough to erase the past and its consequences, which both Maureen and the people she held dearest would come to learn was not possible.

"I don't know what came over me … I don't want you to think I'm gross or some kind of dyke, Maureen, because I'm not. It was stupid and I was hoping we could just forget all about it, 'kay?"

Keira smiled hopefully at Maureen, who had to stuff her hands into the pockets of her jacket to hide the fact that they were shaking.

"But—"

"Honestly, Maureen. I-I'm straight. I'm not … _like that_. If _you_ are—"

"I am," Maureen snapped and Keira's eyes widened, "Sort of. I'm … I'm bi."

It was the first time she had admitted it aloud and she was painfully aware of Roger's approving eyes on her. But right now, all she could focus on was Keira's look of horror.

"Oh. I, um … I didn't mean to … I'm _sorry_ …"

"It's not a terminal disease!" she exclaimed. Keira cringed a little.

"I didn't say it was! I just want to pretend it didn't happen, Maureen—"

"But it did!"

"I _know_! But … please … for my sake? Please."

Maureen clenched her fists tighter. Her heart was quickening again, but this time it had nothing to do with love (_fucking love_). This time, all she could think about was her blood, hot and angry and scarlet, pumped through her veins at breakneck speed by her shattered heart, and she was not upset but _furious_ and she wondered what would happen if she broke Keira's perfect, pretty nose.

_Isn't it amazing how quickly a realization becomes an identity?_

She did not touch Keira, of course. Instead she gritted her teeth and ground out a "sure," and watched the other girl smile thankfully and turn on her heel and have the _audacity _to waggle her fingers at Roger.

"Bitch," she announced the moment Roger was in earshot.

"I take it you don't like her anymore," he clarified, "Are your attentions just fickle or was she _that big _a bitch?"

"The second one," Maureen declared hotly. Roger placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and squeezed comfortingly, seeing through the white-hot rage and into the tiny mass of grief right at the centre.

"Sorry," he told her, smiling a sad smile that Maureen forced herself to return.

The bell for the afternoon classes jarred them out of their moment and Maureen reluctantly pulled away.

"Women!" she cried dramatically as she backed down the hall toward her next lesson, even throwing her hands in the air. Relieved his best friend was still keeping her spirits up, Roger laughed.

"Who needs them?" he finished with a pointed look and Maureen flipped him off.


	8. A Leap of Faith Begins

**Okay, I'm back! :) Sorry it's been so long and sorry if this chapter feels rushed but a friend just left after spending a week with me and I have a limited time before ANOTHER arrives so I am sort of working quickly. Inspiration for the first section of this chapter goes to Stephan King, as his book _Dreamcatcher _had a scene which I based mine on. Another time skip here, readers, but finally some major plot advancements! Enjoy!**

* * *

**A Leap of Faith Begins**

_1989_

"Now, before we all leave…" Principal Martin called above the chatter of the sixty-three blue-clad students in front of him, "I understand you are all very excited to be receiving your diplomas tomorrow but please bare in mind that today is onlya _rehearsal_ for the ceremony, therefore you must be careful with your robes and mortarboards—"

From the rowdier of the pupils came a long, heavy drone of "_Booooo!_"

"—or you will be EXPECTED TO PAY FOR THE DAMAGES!"

The boys promptly ceased their catcalling. Behind Roger's shoulder, Maureen giggled.

"Thank you. You are all now dismissed—"

The principal may have said something else—maybe wishing them luck tomorrow—but it was drowned out by the students standing to leave and starting to talk again. Maureen positively jumped up, before grabbing the cap off of Roger's head and jamming it atop her own.

"Ha-ha!" she crooned, gesturing to her head where the two hats sat one on top of the other, "_I'm _graduating twice and _you're _not at all!"

"You look fucking ridiculous," Roger deadpanned but could feel the corners of his mouth twitching. As loathe as he was to admit it, Maureen's excitement was infectious and he did not want to be the kind of person who could not be swept up in her enthusiasm. Maureen stuck her tongue out—her eyes twinkling—and then she bolted, leaping over the bleachers and racing over the field towards the school building.

"Oh, what the _hell?_" Roger groaned to himself, and then bellowed, "MAUREEN, IF YOU MESS MY HAT UP, I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"

"Mr. Davis!" came the horrified squawk of Principal Martin, "Please keep a civil tongue! You're still my student for another day!"

_Inmate, more like,_ Roger thought as he took off after the cobalt tails of Maureen's robes. She squealed the moment she realized he was gaining on her and, in the confinement of the school hall, ducked behind a fellow graduating student.

"Tony, save me!" she wailed, burying her face in the back of Tony DeMarco. Tony looked stoically up as Roger charged in, intent of saving his hat, and blinked his dark eyes lazily. Then, he reached out, grabbed Roger, bent him backwards like a dancer engaged in a bizarre tango, and kissed him full on the mouth.

"ACK!" Roger gagged, flailing in Tony's arms. Tony pulled back, still expressionless, and set Roger back on his feet.

"I've always wanted to do that, Rogerina," he stated blankly, "Now you know my true feelings."

"What the fuck?" Roger spluttered, furiously wiping his mouth with his sleeve—Principal Martin be damned, "Maureen, keep your boyfriend on a fucking leash!"

"Whatever you say, Rogerina," Maureen grinned before leaning against Tony, "Babes, leave Rogey alone."

Tony kissed Maureen on the forehead and then pulled a face at Roger, "Man, I'm just playing…"

"Screw you," Roger snapped but not without a hint of playfulness. Tony was a cool guy and Roger liked him, even if he was not sure what he saw in Maureen. Maybe it was their shared fucked-up sense of humour; maybe it was because Tony was also part of a broken family. Whatever it was, they had been dating for four months now—something of a triumph for Maureen.

Tony casually wrapped an arm around Maureen and grinned at Roger, "So, what you guys doing after summer?"

Roger shrugged. He had applied to a few universities—for music, of course—but did not have his heart set in more school. He was ready to go out and start doing his own thing … but his mother was not ready to start supporting his "own thing".

Maureen shrugged as well, "Mom and Daddy want me to go to college or something but I said no way. I'm done with school. I'll probably get a job this summer, maybe travel … I dunno."

Tony looked between them for a moment, "Fuck, you guys are so like-minded."

"She's just copying me," Roger replied, and Maureen stuck a foot out in order to nudge his shin—a very half-hearted attempt at a kick, if Roger said so himself.

"Well, _I_," Tony announced, turning to lead the way toward the row of lockers, "got into UCLA."

"You _did?_" Maureen exclaimed, stopping them, "Oh, baby, that's so _great—_!"

Then, predictably, she threw her arms around him and pulled him down to kiss her. He chuckled against her and wrapped his arms around her waist as she threaded her fingers into his short, brown hair. Roger just gagged again.

"Yup," Tony said once they pulled away for air, "Got the grades and all. My cousin has a place there, said I could stay there. He lives in LA too, y'see, but has a spare apartment just as a getaway."

Roger wrinkled his nose; that was the thing he did not like about Tony. He always seemed so … _smug_. Almost boastful about what he had that everyone else—Roger, even—did not. Now, Maureen was by no means humble but even she had a limit.

"That's great," Maureen repeated happily and then sighed longingly, "You're so lucky to get to get away…"

* * *

"Hey, Rog. You wanna do something?"

Roger looked up from his guitar and stared at Maureen, who was dangling her head over the edge of the sofa and smiling up at him from her upside-down position.

"Do something?"

"Yeah! Something…crazy."

Roger arched an eyebrow, "Crazy liiiiike…making-out crazy or kill-a-guy crazy?"

Maureen rolled her eyes, "Crazy like…get-the-fuck-outta-Hicksville crazy."

Roger blinked in confusion, "Yeah? How?"

"Keira."

"_Keira?_"

Maureen sat up and nodded enthusiastically, "Yup! She and I still get along and she's got a cousin with a place in _New York. _The _City_."

"I thought you meant some other New York," Roger said sarcastically and Maureen scowled, "I thought she was a bitch."

"She is, but she's a bitch with _connections_," Maureen pointed out, "Look, weren't you listening to Tony earlier? If _he _can get out of this place, why can't we? We have more potential in our little fingers than he does in his whole body!"

"He's your boyfriend!"

"Still!"

Roger pushed his guitar away and ran a hand down his face, trying to laugh, "Maureen, that's ridiculous!"

"Oh, come on! Keira said she'd talk to him about us moving there if I stopped threatening to tell her parents that we made out—"

"Jesus Christ, Mo_—_!"

"—and I spoke to him too and he was looking for some roommates anyway to help with rent! He's cool with it!"

"Because two small-town kids wanna put their trust in a stranger and move to the Big Apple? I can see why!"

"Roger," Maureen said seriously, her face grave, "This is a golden opportunity for us. Haven't you always wanted to go to New York?"

"Yeah, but—"

"I just handed you the chance to go there on a silver platter! We can _do _this, Rog! Nothing can stop us! You've just got to believe it—take a leap!"

Roger's eyes widened a little, "Like … a leap of faith?"

Maureen straightened up, surprised, "That's good. Where'd you get that?"

Blushing slightly, Roger averted his gaze to his lap. "My dad used to say it," he said quietly, "all the time. He believed in fate a lot, but said you couldn't _really _believe in it without taking a few leaps of faith."

Maureen was silent. Roger had never talked this much about his dead father—about the _aftermath_, he spoke often, but life with the late Gregory Davis was uncharted territory for them. She placed a warm hand on Roger's shoulder and smiled.

"Would he want you to take _this _one?"

It was Roger's turn to be quiet. He knew what the answer would be; his father would take into account his mother's complaints and refusals but, at the end of the day, would tell him to do what was best for his talent and happiness. _You're a man now_, he would say, like he said to Richie the day he left for college, _Now, you're free to make your own choices. It's your life and if this is what you want to do, you gotta do it. Just don't lose us along the way, hmm? And don't lose yourself either._

"Keira's cousin has a place?"

"Yeah."

"…are we gonna have to share a room?"

Exuberantly, Maureen hugged him.

* * *

The next day dawned bright and early and in a matter of hours, Roger was no longer be a student, a child, dependant. Soon, he would be free.

The ceremony itself was boring as anything. Roger's mother and siblings were there—Richie had shaken Roger's hand and wished him luck and, today of all days, Roger could not refuse him—as were Maureen's father, mother and stepparents. However, Roger did not see Maureen arrive until the last possible second before the principal began the service. When he did, her eyes were red and her lips were pressed into a firm line; eight seats down from him, Tony DeMarco was grim, his face grey except for two spots of colour high on his cheekbones. _Not looking so smug now, are ya?_

The principal announced all the awards, then revealed the valedictorian, then—finally—began to hand out the scrolls of diplomas. As his name started with _D_, Roger's name was called fairly early on, so, as the others went up to receive their rewards for twelve years of work, he stood to the side with his fellow _D_s, as well as the _A_s, _B_s and _C_s, being hugged, patted on the back and (by a few excitable or blushing young ladies) kissed. Afterwards, instead of going to hunt down his family, Roger raced up to Maureen and happily twirled her around his arms. She laughed, which he was relieved to hear, and sagged against his chest when he put her down again.

"It's weird," she commented, "Isn't it?"

Roger swallowed down the lump in his throat. It _was _weird, almost downright scary, that he and Maureen were finally striking out on their own. Suddenly, it seemed less liberating and more like being on a tightrope with no safety net.

Then Maureen leant away from him and meet his eyes, hers swimming with tears. She gripped his upper arms tightly, her face set in steely determination, and whispered, "We're doing this."

Truth be told, Roger never doubted it.

* * *

At eleven-thirty-three that night, Roger Davis crept out of his childhood room with only his guitar and a backpack stuffed with clothes and money he had been saving up since age sixteen for a car. He snuck into the living room and peered out of the window, waiting for the car of Keira's cousin Nathan to pull up, bringing with him Maureen Johnson and an open road of possibilities. Licking his lips nervously, Roger searched around the room for a pen and paper, eventually having to resort to one of his sister's coloring books and a crayon. He hesitated for a moment—what to write? _I'm sorry_? _I had to do this_? _I can't stand living in this house for a minute longer_? Eventually, he just sighed and scribbled a quick note, leaving it in plain sight on the coffee table. A little later, he watched as the headlights of a car pulled up and his best friend waved frantically from the front seat window, before swinging open the front door and running out to meet his destiny.

_I'll call.  
- Roger._


	9. Center Of The Universe

****

Before I begin this chapter, some important points must be made:

**1) I don't want to sound whiny or annoying but I only got one review for last chapter despite this story being on five fav lists and sixteen stories alerts. I appreciate it if you **_**are**_** reading—and thanks to **_**tinkerbelle27 **_**for reviewing!—but a little feedback would be lovely. Seriously, I'm a total review whore. I won't make anyone do anything and won't hold anything hostage but I'm just saying. Sorry for taking up valuable space…**

**2) I start school on Wednesday so I don't know how often I'll get to update. Hopefully this story will be finished by Christmas but you'll have to bear with me…**

**3) **_**RENT **_**isn't mine and probably never will be. :)**

**4) This chapter is very much setting the scene for Roger and Maureen's time in the City and laying the foundations for the people they become. I am trying to have it be in-keeping with canon but, again, you may have to bear with me. Also, I apologise for any inaccuracies about East Village geography. I tried looking up maps but they might as well have been in Greek. I really need to go to New York! :D Also, apologies if I perpetuate any stereotypes about people in the City.**

**5) Finally, I am deeply sorry if any of the content in the chapter causes offence or upset. The end gets a little heavy – you have been warned. If there's any confusion about the last scene, please let me know. I basically just want to get Maureen's warped views across but I don't know if I did it clearly enough. Again, just let me know.**

**6) Apologies for the freakin' central align thing. Again. :P**

**So, enjoy this chapter!**

**

* * *

**

**Center Of The Universe**

_June 1989_

Maureen Johnson had never considered herself insignificant by any stretch of the imagination. However, standing amongst the bustling, colourful people crowding the streets and staring up at the sky-high buildings of New York City, with only a backpack and a couple of suitcases, it was hard to feel anything but.

Beside her, Keira's cousin grunted and lifted Maureen's bags. Nathan was not a thing like the relation Maureen had come to know: while Keira had been petite yet curvy and blonde, Nathan was dark and heavy-set. He was not necessarily overweight but _thick _in a way that made Maureen think of both security and intimidation. He certainly was huge compared to lanky, dark blonde Roger, whose hand Maureen had in a death grip.

"This way," Nathan grunted, jerking a head down the street. Maureen hesitated.

"We're walking?" she asked confusedly. Nathan craned his neck back to look at her and bared his teeth in a grin that sent chills down Maureen's spine.

"Any cash for a cab?" he asked in return. Maureen glanced up hopefully at Roger but he set his jaw and shook his head.

"Better save it," he murmured in her ear, "We don't know how much we'll have for food and stuff…"

With a sigh, Maureen conceded that they had a point. Forlornly, she looked down at her footwear—her favourite black boots with heels that, as her mother had pointed out, were too tall for walking long distances in.

_Should've worn my sneakers…_

They must have made an unusual troupe, Maureen would reflect in later life. They had walked silently and in single file: stocky, strong Nathan carrying a pair of suitcases and wearing a sullen expression; then her, a scared girl in a confident woman's body and painful heels; finally Roger, tall and slim and wearing his old leather jacket, with a backpack and a guitar case, taking up the rear in order to give his closest friend some peace of mind. For that, even though she would not always show it, Maureen would always be grateful.

The area that Nathan lived in the East Village was seedy, though a considerable improvement on where the young friends would later inhabit. It was almost sunset, so the flow of human traffic in the main part of the city had probably lessened, but here the streets were almost empty, save for a few homeless people huddled in corners, some suspicious figures lurking in the alleyways, and a few scantily clad ladies giving Nathan and Roger flirty smiles and winks. Maureen tried to swallow her unease but found it stuck in her throat like tears.

At one point, one of the men in the alleys stepped out, his hood pulled tight down over his eyes, and hissed a few words to Nathan. Nathan scowled and whispered back to him, before throwing the kids behind him a smile that was supposed to be reassuring.

"Not much further, guys!"

When they finally reached the apartment building, Maureen could have collapsed with relief and exhaustion, especially when learning Nathan's apartment was on the bottom floor. Her feet felt pinched and sore and she staggered gratefully into the lobby. Nathan made a growling sound that she somehow recognized as laughter and led them to a blue door at the end of the dingy hallway.

There were four separate rooms to Roger and Maureen's first New York residence—two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a main room that was connected to an open kitchenette. The men unceremoniously dropped the bags on the living room room—save the guitar, which was lowered carefully onto the couch next to Maureen, who threw herself down and started yanking off her shoes.

Nathan tore his eyes away from her movement to address Roger, whom he had already deducted was the sensible half of the pair, "Only two bedrooms, Rog. Unless you wanna share, one of you gotta take the couch."

"That's cool," Roger replied, shrugging and gazing around his new home with nothing short of wonder, "I got the couch."

"Great. I already told the landlord you guys were moving in, so you gotta start with your share of the rent pretty soon. What are you guys gonna do?"

Roger met his eyes and grinned, "We'll figure something out."

* * *

_September 1989_

When most recent high school graduates would have spent their summers preparing for college, work or travel, Roger Davis and Maureen Johnson spent theirs adapting to whole new, independent lives. Both were forced to take up jobs—Maureen agreed to a few shifts a week as a waitress at a nearby diner, while Roger began to bartend at a nightclub almost every night (he was only eighteen but he did not offer that information and his greasy new boss did not ask for it). Nathan seemed to drift in and out, returning like clockwork in the last week of every month to give in his share of the rent money and chat a little to his roommates, particularly Maureen.

When he was not working, Roger spent his time avoiding phone calls from his family and looking for work as a guitarist. At first, he had hoped for something which would allow him to be the artist he longed to be but by now, Maureen knew he just wanted something better than what he had. He was talented, but life in the City was no picnic and the world he was trying to break into was competitive.

Maureen, in the meantime, was exactly where she had always been. Nowhere.

* * *

_December 1989_

Christmas was, to say the least, interesting. Maureen woke, as she always did on this day, at the crack of dawn. Roger, she was horrified to discover, did not. In fact, it was noon when he finally sat up, rubbed his eyes and found his roommate perched on the armrest of his bed, nursing a cup of coffee and a frown.

"Made you a cup of coffee seven hours ago," she grumbled and Roger grinned.

"How sweet of you," he crooned as he stood and let the covers fall away from him, leaving him in just the jeans he had passed out in the night before after his final shift before his three-day Christmas break. Maureen could not help but stare. Before, she had always thought of Roger as a boy but now—with his exhausted face and easy-going smile—he was suddenly a man.

A _ripped _man. She had never known Roger to work out…

Noticing her gaze, Roger self-consciously crossed his arms over his bare chest, "What are you staring at?"

"That my Christmas present?" Maureen asked teasingly, nodding towards his body. Roger pulled a face.

"You _wish_."

Christmas was not a day when Nathan decided to drop on. It had been six months since they moved in and Maureen could probably count the number of times they had seen him on both hands. However, she did not dwell on it; instead, she finished her coffee as Roger made a new one and then presented him with his gift.

"I couldn't afford a lot," she stated remorsefully as Roger attempted to rip through the many layers of cellotape she had wrapped around the shoddy wrapping paper, "But I figured this would be okay."

"…a sweatshirt?"

Maureen nodded enthusiastically as Roger lifted up his present for inspection. It was a dark green hooded sweatshirt, a size too big because the store had been out of medium. Roger arched an eyebrow and turned it over to see the back.

"It's practical!" Maureen exclaimed in an attempt to break the silence, "It's freezing here—well, outside is. I guess one of the advantages of paying rent is the heating, even if it is to corporate jerks who already have more money in their back pocket than we will for another year, ha ha, right?"

She cleared her throat awkwardly and then noticed Roger, staring at her with a little grin on his face.

"What are _you _staring at?"

"Nothing," Roger said nonchalantly, "I'm just thinking that my present is gonna be _perfect _for you."

Maureen gasped dramatically, "You didn't have to get me anything!"

He did and they both knew it. Roger pulled his new sweatshirt over his head and then his leather jacket on over that, zipping it up tightly. Maureen ran to get changed, emerging in a thick white turtleneck, black trousers and a second-hand red trench coat. Both had gifts waiting for them from their parents—Roger had a postcard, Maureen had large presents from both her mother and Ed and her father, Fiona and the new baby—but silently agreed to look at them later.

It was snowing outside and both were chilly but their enthusiasm to explore the City at the most wonderful time of the year made them forget the cold. Roger allowed Maureen to drag him to see the tree at Rockefeller Centre and window-shopping at stores they would never be able to afford. In return, Maureen agreed to stop and watch a few street-performers, as well as go to dinner at a little café Roger had heard about in Alphabet City, a place that one day would be like Maureen's home away from her home and the home of her best friends.

When dusk fell and the Christmas lights illuminated the streets, Roger abruptly stopped and tugged on Maureen's arm.

"Come on," he told her, "I promised a work mate I'd go and see her show today."

"On Christmas Day?" Maureen cried, trying to wrench her arm away. Roger turned to her and blinked.

"You don't want to come? It's your gift!"

"_Your _friend's show is _my _present?" Maureen clarified skeptically, trying not to give away how fuming mad she was that she had spent her hard-earned cash on him and he just pawned her off on a bartender's "show".

Roger scoffed and then grabbed her hand, absently lacing their fingers together while looking Maureen dead in the eye.

"It's your kind of thing. Trust me," he told her lowly, "I wouldn't take you if I thought you'd hate it."

Maureen wanted to keep kicking up a fuss, declaring him a bastard and demanding the sweatshirt back, but his statement rang with such conviction that she found herself nodding and letting him lead her.

To her surprise, he did not lead her to a hall or theatre but instead deeper into Alphabet City. He ducked into an alley, tightening his grasp on her hand and ignoring her questions about their location, and guided her through a maze of concrete before they burst into a wide-open space. Dead in the centre was a tall, rusty iron tower, at the top of which a spotlight stood. In the path on the spotlight, which pointed directly to their right, was an bare metal stage. The area was already buzzing with people, many of whom looked to be worse off than them. Maureen's jaw dropped with a pop and, without thinking, she released Roger's hand and delved into the throng of people, determined to push her way to the front of the crowd.

That was the night Maureen Johnson made up her mind about her future. That was the night she was exposed to the world of performance art. After the show, she located Roger in the dispersing crowd and ran into his arms.

"Thank you!" she squealed, "Thank you, thank you, thank you! How can I ever repay you?"

"Don't fucking scare me like that again," Roger snapped, pulling away and framing her face in his hands, "Jesus, I thought I'd lost you."

Maureen paid his worry no heed, instead swooning, "It was amazing! So enlightening! The _language _and _music _and _metaphors_…I didn't realize until the end that she was talking about the effect we're having on the environment! She's brilliant!"

"Ya think?" Roger asked with a grin as they turned to leave, "Reckon you'll give it a try? This place is open to anyone, I think."

"You think I could?" Maureen asked, but then seemed to answer her own question and began animatedly talking, "What would I talk about? I could do stuff like divorce or moving from a small town to a big city cos I have experience there but that's so _boring_, and I could do so much more! I think—"

Roger ruffled her hair good-naturedly, effectively putting an end to her babbling, and then fondly said, "Merry Christmas, Mo."

* * *

_February 1990_

On the twenty-seventh, as was his routine, Nathan returned to the apartment with his share of the rent. However, this time, there were a number of differences that Maureen would not realize were important until she looked back on that day. If she had, perhaps everything would be different.

The first; she had turned nineteen years old earlier that month and, as always, with age came a certain level of confidence. After her eighteenth year had been so crazy and incredible at the same time, Maureen's birthday was met with the assurance that life could not get anymore insane.

The second; Maureen was alone in the apartment. Roger had finally scored an audition with some small-time band and had been gone most of the day.

And the third; there was something off. Of course, there was always something off about Nathan but this time, there was something more so. If Maureen had spotted his restless movements or even his pupils, which were so big they almost concealed his hazel irises, then who knows what would have happened?

As it was, Maureen did not consider any of these things. She put down her pen and the pad on which she was noting down ideas for protests and let Nathan into her home with no sense of foreboding.

"Got rent," Nathan slurred, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a handful of crumpled notes. Maureen furrowed her brow and stood to close the door he had left gaping open. The latch clicked behind her.

"Thanks," she said uncertainly, taking the money and stuffing it into the pocket of her shorts. As if the cash had been balancing him, Nathan swayed on his feet, his eyelids fluttering, and Maureen was torn between catching him and letting him fall.

"Are you okay?" asked Maureen, a little fearfully. Nathan's eyes flew open and he looked at her as if for the first time.

"Maureen," he said suddenly, sounding surprised. His eyes took on a glazed look and his lips curled slightly, "Mau_reen_."

"Erm, ye—"

Before Maureen could finish her sentence, Nathan abruptly lurched forward, pressing his large body right against hers and pinning her to the closed front door. He smelt of booze and something else tangy and strange and some deep, unknown part of Maureen's brain registered that there would be no reasoning with him.

"Pretty, pretty Maureen," he murmured and then crushed their mouths together. It was not like Tony or any of the other boys she had kissed; it was _bruising_, as if he intended to make his mark on her. It was then that Maureen truly realized how much _bigger_ he was than her and, out of fear more than anything, she began to kiss back.

At first, it was okay. At some point, Maureen was even enjoying the kiss and had unconsciously began to pull him closer by his collar, trying not to smirk when she remembered that four years ago, she had been in a similar position with his very female cousin. But, when Nathan suddenly shoved a hand up her shirt, alarm bells began to ring in Maureen's head.

Her mind began to scream at her _Push him! Get out! Get away! _but that solitary little part of her again pointed out that he was drunk and high and out of his mind right now. It was resigned to the inevitability of this; he wanted her and he was in no state to take no for an answer.

At this comprehension, Maureen felt her stomach twist in terror. Though she would not admit it to anyone but Roger at any point in her life, at nineteen years old, Maureen Johnson was a virgin. She had made out with a few boys and occasionally explored their bodies but _never _had she gone the whole way. The people around her had shown her that sex was all about making yourself feel good, regardless of the consequences. Her mother had had an affair when she grew bored of her family; her father had gone out and fucked Fiona the day his divorce was finalized; hell, even Roger only screwed his high school band-mate's sister because he had fought with his mother that day and the girl had been dumped by her boyfriend! Maureen knew that, in this day and age, sex was not about love and babies alone but she just had not met anyone who could make her feel good yet. And Nathan certainly did not make her feel good but right now she did not feel like she had much of a choice in the matter.

Maureen was jerked out of her thoughts by the man himself. Nathan unexpectedly groped at her breast and, to her horror, she moaned into his mouth. She desperately prayed he would not notice her involuntary reaction—but he did and took that as his green light.

Maureen was not so afraid anymore—instead she was dazed and confused, uncertain and nervous and, above all, more turned on than she had ever been and ashamed of it. Reflecting, she does not remember much of that first encounter. She remembers Nathan pulling away to begin tearing at their clothes. She remembers hooking her legs around his waist and initiating another kiss, despairing at her body's response as she did so. She remembers the sharp pain in the bottom of her belly and that _groan _that erupted from his throat as he pushed against her. She remembers the funnel of pressure inside her that wound tighter and tighter until she shattered with a cry of passion. She remembers feeling pathetic and cheap as he carelessly dropped her and let her slump against the wall.

Then he left as suddenly as he arrived and the universe was the same as ever.

For what may have been hours after his departure, Maureen sat on the couch and stared at the wall and speculated on whether or not she was in some state of shock. She certainly was not aware of the sun setting or even time passing until it was dark and Roger came home.

"Roger," she whispered when she heard the door slam and suddenly felt her eyes fill with tears. Above all else, she just wanted to talk to him. Just wanted to tell him what Nathan did—what _she _did—and have him hold her and tell her she was not worthless. Not a tramp.

"Maureen, I got it!"

Confused, Maureen turned her head to look at him. Roger stood in the room, one hand clutching the handle of his guitar case, with the biggest smile Maureen had ever seen on him on his face. His very eyes were dancing and Maureen suddenly thought that he was beautiful.

"Got it?" she repeated and he scoffed.

"The _audition_, Mo!" he cried, propping the guitar against the armrest, "Okay, they're not exactly Nirvana and I can't give up the bartending yet but—God, Maureen, they're a real fuckin' working _band_!"

He stopped and ran his hands through his hair, before moving to sit on the coffee table in front of her. His very step had a bounce in his step due to his excitement.

"They get _gigs _and they want me on lead guitar _and vocals_!" he grinned, "I know it's not gonna be a walk in the park, I know, but … God, this is like my dream-come-true!"

If he was aware of Maureen's hands shaking on her lap, he did not mention it. "That's … that's _awesome_, Rog. You deserve it."

Roger looked a little surprised at her lack of enthusiasm. It seemed it was then that he noticed the reddened eyes, the tight smile, the shaky hands. Without even thinking, he reached across and held Maureen's hand, enveloping her small white one with both his larger, calloused ones.

"Hey. What's wrong?"

Maureen swallowed. She longed to look down—just to escape the beseeching, concerned gaze of his green eyes—but Roger seemed to realize this and lifted one hand to hold her chin up.

"_Hey_."

"I'm fine," she squeaked, squirming out of his grasp and standing, "I am. Just tired."

She forced a smile at him, ignoring his bewildered expression.

"You s—"

"Positive. Na-night."

Then, as if to convince both of them, she leant down and kissed his forehead.

"I'm really happy for you," she mumbled against his skin and she really _was_. She felt him reach up again—to what? Cradle her, coerce her with kindness to open her heart to him?—and dodged out of his grasp.

"Sleep well!" she trilled before plunging into her bedroom and shutting the door.

She wondered if she should do something—keep working on her protest or call her mother or do something that might organize her thoughts. But she found that she had not lied to Roger: she was exhausted. Instead, she toppled onto her bed, vowing that things would be better in the morning, and was out like a light.


	10. Flirt With A Stranger

**This is probably my longest and fastest update, like, **_**ever**_** but only because this part's basically been finished for a few days now. I appreciate all the reviews I got so thank you so freaking much and Keep. Them. Coming! ;D This chapter and at least one more will deal more with Maureen's complicated issue but this is mostly a Roger chapter. I have come to realize that it is Maureen getting most of drama as of late so Roger gets a little this time, even though it means I've had to generate **_**another **_**random OC. Sorry that I'm sort of churning them out ... What happens to Roger here will come to affect him and his relationship with Maureen, so please don't think this is just me scraping the bottom of the barrel for plot twists. Also, I felt Roger deserved some romance with someone who wasn't A) a stranger [that band mate's sister], B) secretly attracted to girls [Keira] or C) addicted to drugs [April and Mimi]. **

**Anyway, enjoy and please keep the comments coming! **_**RENT **_**isn't mine. And I dare you to guess which TV shows the names of Roger's band mates came from. ;) And I apologise if I get my drug knowledge wrong … I'm still not sure if there's a difference between cannabis and marijuana. xD**

**P.S. Regarding the end of this chapter, I know some of what Maureen says seems a bit hypocritical but it shall all be explained soon. ****Thanks for reading!**

* * *

**Flirt With A Stranger**

_March 1990_

The lights were practically blinding him and he could feel the sweat gliding slowly down his neck and face and spine. His fingers were tired and sore from constantly strumming anxiously on his guitar and, after four cover songs, he felt like now he should surrender to his exhaustion, go home and fall on his sofa-bed. But the thundering of his heart matched the steady rhythm of the drums behind him and he could hear the audience in front of his, cheering loudly and dancing and singing along. Roger had never felt this type of rush—the _adrenaline_, the _euphoria_—and that alone keep him standing, trusty old Rodolfo in his hands and voice belting out the lyrics over the deafening cries of the crowd.

He knew that this was only a one-night gig at a local club but this felt like the beginning of something far more significant.

After the song, Roger and his band-mates darted backstage, their ears still ringing with the calls of their enthusiastic viewers. With a delighted exhale of breath, Roger swiped at his forehead in an attempt to clear any perspiration and grinned hopefully at his fellows.

"How was that?" he asked. Laughing, Finn clapped him on the back.

"Dude, it was _better _than awesome!" he declared. Dean rolled his eyes at his enthusiasm before offering Roger a calm smile, "You did great, man."

"You _sure _you're only nineteen?" Henry questioned, cocking his head a little. Roger snorted a little and nodded, while Dean rolled his eyes again and then smacked Henry upside the head.

"Come on, doofus," he muttered before turning on the spot just as the manager approached.

"Great set, boys," she complimented them distractedly as she, like the band, focused on the notes she was sifting through in her hands, "You can go wind down and load your equipment in the back room."

The four men mumbled their thanks as they eagerly snatched up their rewards. Roger's eyes widened a little as he counted out his twenty-dollar bills. _One hundred and fifty bucks? For one night? That's not bad!_

Eyes glued on his money, as though it would vanish the instantly he looked away, Roger followed the other members of the Well Hungarians through to the back room, where Dean and Henry fell onto the couch, and Finn stood in front of them, grinning.

"And I've got the perfect way to wind down," he announced before reaching into his pockets and producing a little plastic baggie filled with what looked like moss. Roger furrowed his brow while Henry sat up excitedly and Dean groaned.

"Dude! Tonight?" he exclaimed, "Tonight's the _one _night I promised Samantha I'd stay sober!"

Finn scoffed, "Not my problem. 'Sides, I've only got enough for three joints, so you just made my job easy," then, ignoring Dean's complaints of unfairness, Finn smiled at a shell-shocked Roger, waving the baggie enticingly, "You in, Rog?"

Roger practically spluttered. He may have been the "bad influence" at school, but that had not gone as far as taking marijuana or, indeed, any other illegal substance. He liked his band-mates a lot, even considered them his first big-city friends, but had not expected any of them—not even sarcastic, eye-rolling Dean—to be into that kind of crap.

"Oh, I-I don't—I'm not—I've _never_—"

Finn cut him off with a surprised chuckle, "I get it. You've never got high before."

Unable to trust his mouth, Roger shook his head furiously. Dean snickered into his hand and Henry grinned with a wide-eyed innocence that belied his lifestyle.

"Shut up, guys, he's a kid," snapped Finn, before stepping forward and wrapping an arm around Roger, "Come on, I'll show how it's done."

"But I—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know it's bad," Finn interrupted, rolling his eyes, "But this isn't as hardcore as some weed. And it's a ton safer than shit like coke or smack, isn't it? Just give it a go, Rog, and I swear I won't make you take it again."

Roger pressed his lips together and stared for a moment at the pot in Finn's hands before setting his jaw and nodding determinedly. He watched as Finn and Henry expertly rolled the joints and Henry lit his up contentedly. Then, Finn twisted around to give Roger his joint and held out a lighter. Gingerly, Roger held the end of the joint into the flame and delicately took his first puff.

The last thing he recalls until his world exploded was Henry commenting, "Relax, we'll keep you away from sharp edges."

* * *

_April-May 1990_

It was approaching midnight on the thirtieth of April and Roger could not sleep. It might have had something to do with the fact that his last joint had been almost two weeks ago and its absence was making him antsy. He could remember being thirteen and watching his mother try to give up the chain-smoking she had started just after his father died; he remembered she was irritable, more so than usual. He imagined what she felt was extremely similar to what he felt now. _At least this isn't a stronger drug or addiction_, he observed, rolling onto his side and staring into the darkness of the living room, _Kicking the habit after longer than a month must be a bitch. _Or maybe there was another reason for his restlessness.

It was the end of the month and, as had been tradition for almost a year now, Nathan had arrived home. He had missed him at the end of February because of his audition for the Well Hungarians, and the end of March due to working at the nightclub at night and practicing all day, so this was the first time Roger had seen him in three months. He was still as odd as ever—in fact, more so. Even Maureen was acting strange around him.

As if on cue, Roger heard a click and a creak as one of the bedroom doors was pushed open. Trying his hardest to be quiet, Roger propped himself up on an elbow and peered over the back of the sofa. He could just make out Nathan's wide form slowly closing his bedroom door before tiptoeing to Maureen's door, opening it and slipping inside. The latch barely made a sound behind him. Roger flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling for the longest time.

He really needed a cigarette.

* * *

_August 1990_

It was the early hours of the morning when Roger first met her. As he had told his roommate way back in February, he was not yet able to quit his bartending job, which was why he was at the club at one o'clock, the busiest time of night, serving alcohol to all the sweaty young people taking a break from grinding on the dance floor. It was late summer so Roger had resorted to wearing just a white sleeveless shirt, his jeans and an ancient pair of flip-flops he had discovered under the couch in order to cope with the heat. But it did not help that he worked in a place filled with body warmth. He was just about to consider calling his break when a young woman waved frantically from the other end of the bar.

"What can I get you?" he asked in as lively a voice as he could manage. The woman hesitated and raked her dark eyes up and down him for a moment, her lips pulling into a smile. She was a young black woman, about Roger's age, with her long hair scraped behind her ears and silver hoop earrings catching the light.

"Three glasses of water," she requested sweetly, throwing her head back to gesturing to the two girls behind her, babbling loudly over the music. She watched as Roger filled up the glasses and set them on the bar, then said something he could not hear to her two friends. They both giggled and were swallowed into the crowd while she remained behind.

"How's your night going?" Roger asked, out of politeness for than anything.

"Not great," she said simply, "I just moved here and my friends and I came here to scope out any hotties," she sighed and then flashed him a flirtatious smile, "As it is, the only cute guy here is the bartender."

Confused, Roger craned his neck to look for the man she spoke of. The other bartender on duty was Kelly, the woman whose performance he had taken Maureen to on Christmas Day. A moment later, Roger realized there were no other male bartenders here except him and, a further second later, realized she was referring to him.

"Oh," was all he could say. The girl grinned.

"What's your name?" she called over the music. Roger cleared his throat awkwardly.

"I, um, I'm Roger," he replied. She lifted her chin slightly, revealing her long, bare neck and smiling that smile again as she introduced herself as Irene.

"Irene," Roger repeated, smirking a little and planting his palms on the counter so Irene's eyes were immediately drawn to them. Predictably, they then skirted up his arms to his shoulders and down his torso, over his legs and then up to his sparkling green eyes. Irene giggled a little.

He was in.

The next morning was, to say the least, strange. Roger woke up in a strange bed in a strange apartment with the stranger Irene curled against him. He carefully untangled himself from her sleeping grip, dressed, and ventured into the strange front room. He was just debating what to do when he discovered a picture propped on the coffee table—Irene with a strange man next to her, his arm around her shoulders. In the corner was a little note: _Hey, Irene, just want to wish you luck at NYU and say I love you. Hope you can come home for X-mas! Love Connor xx _

It was that note that led Roger to sneaking out of the strange building and never looking back.

* * *

_September 1990_

On a weekend, at an entirely new nightclub, she found him. He had just played a set with the band and was in the back room with them, just lighting up. He had seen her—_Irene; after all, it's hard to forget your first one-night-stand's name…oh, wait_—in the crowd dancing with those same female friends and was praying to God that she did not recognize him.

Unfortunately, Roger Davis was not someone God seemed to listen to. The door opened and Irene poked her head in, clearly unauthorized and sneaking backstage. Her eyes widened a little when she discovered Roger leaning back on the sofa, one knee pulled up and the hand holding the joint propped on it.

"Hey, I thought it was you," she grinned, stepping in and letting the door shut behind her with a _click!_. Finn's eyes flitted back and forth between Roger and Irene; Henry was too far gone to notice much except his own hand, fingers splayed in the air in front of his face as he gaped at it in astonishment; and Dean just smirked and coughed a cough that sounded a lot like, "Nice pull."

"Hey," he muttered in greeting, averting his eyes back to his lap. He heard Irene's humming noise, before he felt the warmth of a person next to him and smelled her spicy perfume, and then she was wrapping her fingers around his wrist and pulling the joint towards her. She carefully wrapped her lips around the end, holding his gaze the whole time, and breathed in.

Finn whistled lowly, "_Damn_."

Henry looked up, surprised, "What? Keep it down, will ya?"

Ten minutes later, Roger and Irene burst into the alley and Irene promptly pressed herself against Roger, fisting the shirt over his hips and leaning up to press their lips together. He fervently reciprocated, cupping her neck and opening his mouth. His tongue pried her lips open and he deepened the kiss, groaning as her tongue ventured out to meet his. She pulled him towards her and stepped back until they hit the wall with a thump that jolted Roger back into reality.

He pulled away from her and rested his forehead where her neck met her shoulder, heaving a defeated sigh, "You have a boyfriend."

He felt her stiffen, and then swallow before her fingers began to thread into his hair.

"I'm going to break up with him," she told him. His hands, which had drifted down to her waist, rounded into fists in his frustration.

"_Going _to," he repeated sardonically and, for no further reason other than that he wanted to, bit down hard on her neck. She gasped, her eyes fluttering shut, and he realized with a mixture of amusement and irritation that she was enjoying this confrontation.

"That isn't good enough," he sneered, peppering some unbearably light kisses up the column of her neck and then scraping his teeth on her pulse point. If he was not already high, he was quickly getting drunk on her little sighs and moans of pleasure.

"I'm going to," Irene assured him, breath hitching as he sucked on her neck, "I just, _ah_ … wanted to do it in person."

Roger paused in his ministrations, lifting his head to look her earnestly in the eye.

"What does that make me?" he asked softly. Irene bit her bottom lip.

"You're …" she hesitated, "You're …"

With a growl, Roger decided he did not want an answer yet. He was young and happy and felt lust turning his blood to fire and there would be time to think tomorrow. There was always a tomorrow.

"Irene," he hissed, brushing his mouth against hers and leaning back when she moved to capture his lips, "Let's stop talking now."

Then their mouths and tongues and teeth collided clumsily and Roger stopped thinking.

* * *

_January 1991_

Their affair—relationship, trysts, whatever you wanted to call it—continued for four months in absolute secrecy. The only people who knew were Roger's band-mates and Irene's two friends, Jocelyn and Zoe; Roger did not even tell Maureen. It was not that he did not trust her completely or _want _her to know. It was more that Maureen had suffered when her mother cheated on her father and part of him was afraid that she would immediately see parallels and flip out. Besides, she was busy enough; during the day and night, it seemed an unbroken stream of men _and _women were filing in and out of the apartment, which frankly confused Roger no end. Perhaps they both had similar problems; she was apparently cheating on all those men and women with Nathan (or was that vice versa?), while, despite Irene's promises of breaking up with Connor, she still had not done so. She was adamant that it be done in person but had not been able to do it during her break or at Christmas because she needed to study and did not want to be away from Roger. The second point was ridiculous and rather defeated the object of her going home, but Roger was not about to complain when he was having regular sex with a gorgeous girl. In the meantime, life continued as normal. He still bartended, played sets and had the occasional joint as well as the more-than-occasional cigarette. He still laughed and joked and drank the old beers usually brought by Nathan with Maureen. He still enjoyed where he was in his life.

In January, however, everything changed. Irene did not have to go home because Connor came to New York.

When Roger came home one morning after work, he was surprised to find Maureen already awake. Even more surprising was the young Asian man on the coach, looking at Roger with reproachful eyes.

"Um, hi?" Roger said, uncertainly glancing between the young man and Maureen, whose arms were folded and jaw clenched. _Fuck, she looks pissed._

"Hi, Roger," the man greeted and stood up. Before Roger could ask, he introduced himself, "I'm Connor Aimes. I'm … Irene's, uh, boyfriend."

_Double-fuck. _Roger took a deep breath, commanded himself to keep a cool head before looking at Maureen, "Uh, Mo, could you—?"

"Got it," she said sharply and Roger cringed. When she flounced past him, the air in her wake just seemed to freeze over. She _knew_.

"I'm sorry we have to meet like this," Connor stated curtly, "But I felt I needed to—"

"Look, Connor—"

"No, _you _look," he snapped and Roger's teeth clicked as his jaw clamped shut, "I know Irene, okay? When she got into NYU, I _knew _this would happen. New York's a big, far away place full of all these different kinds of people and she's … well, she's unpredictable. Wild. As I'm sure you know."

Roger's mouth twitched a little. _Hell yeah I know_.

"And I thought it would be okay. I thought she'd get it out of her system and still come back to me. But …" he hesitated before looking up at Roger, "when Zoe told me about you—" _Irene's friend, the bitch. _"—she said you had been … together … since September. _September_. Is that true?"

A little shamefaced, Roger nodded. Connor closed his eyes with a defeated sound and pinched the bridge of his nose. He then asked in a pained tone, "Do you love her?"

Roger was taken aback by this question. It was one he had often asked himself—when he kissed her, when she clung to him and whimpered for more, when he watched her sleep—but the only feelings he had ever conjured up for her were desire and shame. He wished so badly that he could give her a reason to leave Connor, give Connor a reason to understand, but … he couldn't. Closing his eyes in regret, Roger shook his head no. He heard Connor's little release of breath in relief and heard him step closer.

"Then … please … _please_. Give us a chance. Give her back to me. Please, Roger."

The note of despair and begging in Connor's voice tugged at Roger's heartstrings and threatened to break them as he suddenly became aware of what pain he had caused this man. This man who, despite being betrayed and disrespected, still loved that girl. He certainly would never want to be in his position.

"I'm sorry," he felt himself say in a strangled voice, "I-I'm _sorry_."

Connor took in a shaky breath and forced himself to smile, "Thank you."

Schooling his features, Roger nodded, "I'll talk to her, Connor. And I'm—"

"Please don't apologize again," Connor interrupted sadly, "I think, in the end, we were both just foolish."

Roger nodded again and said nothing as Connor thanked him once more and breezed past him, out of the apartment and his life. With a heavy sigh, Roger turned to the phone and picked up the receiver. He would not end this in person. You get what you give after all.

Half-an-hour later, he dropped onto the couch and covered his face with his hands. He had cut off all ties with her, as promised. She had cried and begged and then gone eerily quiet when he harshly told her that her boyfriend had done something similar. He had wished her luck and she him and he had hung up. End of. Except…

"You bastard."

Roger lifted his head just in time to see Maureen scowling at him, hands on hips.

"How could you do something like that?" she demanded furiously, "How could you fuck a girl with a boyfriend? After all the shit we've been through? And you never told me? I thought I could trust you!"

Roger clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, "Maureen, it's nothing to do with you—"

"Yes, it is!" she snapped in return, "It's to do with me and my dad and everyone who's been fucked over by someone they cared about! You always try to get me to open up when you keep closing off and doing _shit _like—like—_drugs_ and _smoking _and fucking girls like her! You're such a hypocrite, Roger!"

Inside his chest, Roger felt something rip and he flew to his feet, turning on a surprised Maureen, "_I'm _a hypocrite? _I'M _a hypocrite! What the hell do you think you're _talking _about, Maureen? You keep on playing your little 'my-mommy-cheated-on-my-daddy' card and playing saint while _you've _been hitting on everything that moves! If anyone's a hypocrite, it's _you_! You think I haven't noticed all the guys—all the _girls_—you've been traipsing around here? You've been leading these people on and then, the _second _Nathan walks through that door, you forget everything else and just fuck him, don't'cha?" then he started laughing—more like _cackling_—darkly, almost hysterically, oblivious to Maureen's horrified gaze, "Hah, I bet ol' Nathan had _nooo _trouble opening _you _up, did h—?"

He was so absorbed in his frenzied rant that he did not noticed Maureen's hand swing towards him until his head snapped to the side and pain flared up in his left cheek. He was speechless for a moment, as was Maureen, until she began to speak in an uncharacteristically quiet voice.

"How can you say that?" she asked shakily, her expression somewhere between heartbroken and furious, "How can you say shit like that? _God_, Roger. You think _I_ fuck _him_? You think I—what?—begged me to pin me down and … until I … God! You think I asked for this or started this or even _want _this? Cos you're wrong! And you have no idea what's going on with me, Roger, or what it feels like! You don't—" her voice failed her and she lowered her head, face crumpling. Roger, meanwhile, felt like a bucket of ice water had been thrown at him. And then the bucket. He felt sick. Because she sounded so hurt. Because the implications of her words meant that there was something he did not understand and maybe would never understand that was happening. Because he had not noticed.

"What did he do to you?" he asked in a low voice. Maureen's eyes shot up and she looked like a deer caught in headlights.

"Wha—?"

"What did Nathan _do_?" Roger snarled, stepping forward a little, close enough to see the fear in her eyes.

"Nothing, I…" her voice died again but this time she cleared her throat nervously, "I'm being stupid. It's fine. I can't—"

"No, Maureen," he said, gently but firmly this time, and rested his hands on her shoulders. He could feel her resistance but held tightly, resolved not to let her run away this time.

How long had she been running away?

"Look, Mo, I … I'm sorry. _I_ was stupid and you have every right to tell me that. But you were wrong in thinking you can't trust me. You _can _trust me. And right now you need to. You can trust me. I need to know what he's done to you, even if it's something small or even if it's huge. Please, Mo? Tell me."


	11. Thicker Than Blood

**Thanks again for the amazing reviews! Remember, dear readers, if you have comments, ANY comments, I'd love to hear them. Keep them coming! Sorry again for the quick update, but let me tell you, watching the **_**Chess In Concert **_**DVD is great incentive to write a story about Roger and Maureen. As for this chapter, the first two segments will be flashbacks (i.e. took place before the end of the last chapter) and then the rest will follow. It should be pretty clear, but this is just so you know. The first is a month after the end of Chapter 9 and the second is a month before the end of Chapter 10. Again, just so you know. Also, regarding the content of this chapter; first, I hope these last few chapters really get Maureen's twisted views of relationships across but I'd been willing to clarify if need by and apologise if I sound paranoid and, secondly, the reason Maureen doesn't really mention women is because I see Maureen being flippant about her attraction to women until she meets Joanne. For some reason, I think Joanne was her first serious girlfriend, haha! Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

**Thicker Than Blood**

_March 1990_

Maureen had not wanted to break her promise to herself. After what happened, she had told herself that nothing would change—that things would be better, even—and for a few weeks, they had not. Now that Roger was in a band, making progress, he was more cheerful, a light in the bleak confusion Maureen's days had become. In a way, he had kept her going, reassured her that what had happened did not have to change anything (even though she sometimes felt like a different person). Yet still, she had not told him.

Then, her world once again was turned on its head. At the end of March, as was tradition, Nathan arrived at the apartment, rent in hand and, this time, clear-headed and coherent. At first, his visit was as they usually were: Maureen bustled about making drinks and chattering carelessly while Roger and Nathan paid no heed to her babble and made small talk. It had got to the point when Maureen hoped he did not remember last month.

But that evening, as she sat on the couch absently thinking of the future and the past and what she was going to do, Nathan sat down heavily beside her and pulled her towards him. The move was so unexpected and forceful that Maureen's mind went blank and she could do nothing but respond to him. She hated how weak she was but something about Nathan's mouth and hands and moans ignited something deep within her and she allowed him to scoop her up, carry her to her bedroom and drop her onto the bed.

The next morning, things were not better.

* * *

_December 1990_

It was that awkward week between celebrations, when everybody was packing away Christmas decorations and preparing for the New Year. Roger had gone out that morning for band practise so Maureen had her day off to herself. She woke up late and, for a while, just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and pondering how quickly time flew. It had been eighteen months since she and Roger had graduated and relocated to the City; it had almost been a year since her whole sick relationship with Nathan had started; it was only a few days until Nathan was expected to return.

_I should probably get Zach out of here._

With that thought, Maureen turned her head to peer at the young man still sleeping peacefully next to her. Zach was, by no means, a bad guy. He had a sweet baby face, with bright blonde hair and brown eyes. He was good-looking and kind and attentive and a young woman like Maureen should daydream about marrying and having children with a man like Zach. Maureen was aware of what she should feel and also what she _did _feel: that Zach, though lovely, was just the latest in a string of people who had failed to keep her mind off of Nathan.

It was absurd, when Maureen thought about it, but in the last nine months, she had tried to see other men—and occasionally, other women, though those liaisons mostly consisted of one night together and then jotting a fake number onto a slip of paper or the back of the other woman's hand—yet, every time, she felt as though she were cheating on Nathan. It was not _guilt_, because sex did make Maureen feel good and she did not have to apologise for feeling good, but every short-lived, flimsy relationship felt almost taboo and Maureen found herself more on edge than ever when Nathan was home, as if afraid he might find out…which, again, was ridiculous because she should not care what he thought. It was her life and her business. He was just messing with it.

Beside her, Zach stirred and blinked those big, lovely eyes. Maureen sighed.

_Here we go again…_

* * *

_January 1991_

"Look, Mo, I … I'm sorry. _I_ was stupid and you have every right to tell me that. But you were wrong in thinking you can't trust me. You _can _trust me. And right now you need to. You can trust me. I need to know what he's done to you, even if it's something small or even if it's huge. Please, Mo? Tell me."

It was stupid. _She _was stupid. She did not even care that Roger was sleeping with that girl—the one with the boyfriend. It was like she always said: if it makes you feel good, what's the problem? There had not been a problem for her parents or even herself. She had not even cared much when the girl's boyfriend, Connor, started to bawl on her couch. She had felt sorry for him, of course, but anyone sending their young girlfriend off to college in a city like New York without a concern in the world must have had it coming. It's the city that never _sleeps_; the clue is right fucking there!

But when faced with Roger, Maureen found anger welling up inside her all of a sudden and desperately searched for a reason why. She honestly did not understand why she felt so mad, so … _betrayed_. So she said some things she did not mean—something about defending the honour of her father and people like him or some crap like that—and it had not occurred to her that she might provoke him.

But it was _him _that took it too far. He brought up the men and women she had seen over the last year. He brought up how she had used them. Then he brought up _Nathan_.

How he knew, Maureen had no idea. She knew Nathan would not have told him because they were not close and usually only interacted when she was around—and she had heard nothing. Had he seen something? Maureen was not surprised when the first emotion she felt was shame. How weak must he think she was, how pathetic? What if he thought she was a whore, as she feared?

Now he was close to her, his hands holding her in place and his eyes concerned and pleading. Maureen wanted to pour her heart out to him, bare her soul, tell him every last thing (even the shit he would not want to know) and let him comfort her and tell her that it was okay. But something made her hesitate—some brick wall of fear, or maybe perverse loyalty to Nathan, she was not sure.

"Maureen?" Roger said, his fingers flexing against her shoulders a little, "Come on, Johnson. Talk to me."

Suddenly, the man in front of her seemed so _familiar_. He was the boy shyly telling her that he liked her dress. He was straddling the line between youth and adulthood as an angry, grief-stricken teenager. He was the push she needed to come to terms with who she was and he was the man now offering to support her and take care of her if she needed it. He was all these things at once and she was what she had always been. A mess.

Afterwards, Roger and Maureen sat awkwardly on the couch, miles apart despite the fact that their shoulders were pressed together. Maureen could sense that Roger was barely controlling his rage; his neutral expression and trembling hands made that clear. She bit her lip and glanced away, towards the door, as though she intended to stand, stride to it and walk straight out of the apartment. Out of this whole predicament. She knew she should not have told him the truth—that even though Nathan, in a strange way, made her feel good, she had spent the last year or so in a very bad place; that she had thought she understood the world when, really, she was just beginning to learn.

_Shouldn't have told him the truth._

"Roger?"

Roger's jaw tightened a little as his eyes flickered towards her, "…yeah?"

"I think I know why I was so angry about that girl."

Roger's lips twitched slightly, "Because of morality?"

"No," Maureen replied, as though it had been a serious question. She shut her eyes as she shifted around to face him and felt the burn of tears against her closed lids. "Because all along, I told myself that me not telling you was a fluke. One stupid thing that I was uncomfortable about and not a big deal. But when I found out about the smoking and the girl and all that, I was…" she made a few meaningless gestures with her hands and finally blinked her eyes open, "…I realized that it's nothing to do with me. It's _us_. I feel like we don't tell each other everything anymore," now her lip was wobbling dangerously and she sunk her teeth into it hard for a moment to control it before letting herself keep speaking in a shaky voice, "W-we're just not a-as c-close anymore, are we?"

There was a horrible moment when Roger was still silent and his face was still blank and his eyes were still fixed on the wall. There was a horrible moment when Maureen felt every single emotion she had felt in the past few months—her whole life, really—push down on her until she almost could not breathe and only then did Roger speak.

"God, Maureen, you're so fucking _dumb._"

_What? _Maureen's jaw dropped a little as Roger turned towards her, anger clashing with hurt and concern in his eyes.

"Do you really think I'd just let myself drift apart from the only thing going for me in my life other than my guitar? Don't you think I want you to talk to me? Don't you think I've spent the last four months _fucking agonizing _over telling you about her because I thought I could lose you over it? How do you think I feel knowing I missed this cos I was so fucking blind?" with a furious growl, he ran his hands through his hair, "It's not that we aren't close, it's that we've both been confused. And I don't want anything like this to happen again, okay? If you'll talk to me more—tell me if that _scumbag _tries _anything _on—then I'll do the same. You're my best friend, okay, Maureen?"

Maureen would later blame what happened next on hormones and emotions. She would tell herself that it did _not_ happen because of how deeply she loved Roger and how clearly he loved her or because it was the first time since childhood that she had felt someone genuinely _wanted_ to protect and take care of her. It was _not _a case of her going soft; but Roger would quickly be there to grin and point out again that, yes, at the point when he told her she was his best friend and swore to help her, Maureen did burst into tears.

* * *

A few days later, the day after Roger's twentieth birthday, Nathan returned. He entered the front room without a thought and had tossed the money onto the counter before he looked around to find the other occupants of the apartment. Roger and Maureen were sitting cross-legged on the couch; between them was an old chessboard that had been gathering dust in the back of Nathan's closet. (Between them, Roger and Maureen had only a vague understanding of the rules of chess, so instead went about making up their own rules, something that would be no stranger to them in future.)

Nathan, to tell the truth, was a little put out to find Roger there. It was not that he did not like the aspiring musician, but more that he liked his more feminine roommate a little more and had hoped to catch her alone. Instead, he faked a grin and received two grimaces in return.

The day passed as usual, with the three chatting idly as Maureen won the chess game with sixty-eight points (how that happened, Nathan would never know) and the sky outside began to darken. Just after eleven that night, Maureen stretched and declared that she was going to hit the hay. Nathan merely smiled and bid her goodnight, watching her make her way to her room and shut the door. A tipsy Roger lay back on the couch and smiled sleepily at him.

"Getting tired, Rog?"

"Nah. I could stay up all night," the younger boasted, but his statement was punctuated by a yawn. Nathan smirked a little.

"Alright, you win," he grinned, "I'm gonna go to bed now. Have fun."

Roger rolled her eyes and fell sideways on the sofa, pulling his legs up as his eyes drooped. _Already drunk and not even legal yet. What's he gonna be like when he's twenty-one?_

"Hey, Nathan."

"Yeah?"

"You're going to bed?"

"Yup."

"_Your _bed?"

Nathan stared at him, clearly taken aback. What the hell did that mean? Where else was he planning to go? Other than Maureen's room, that was, and there was no way Roger knew about that. Maureen as good as swore she was not planning on saying a word, which could have been either a way to keep things interesting and kinky, or an insult to Nathan.

"Yeah, man."

"Okay, good," Roger said, and then closed his eyes. Nathan frowned at his half-asleep form for a minute, at least until Roger snapped, "Dude, are you gonna watch me all night?", and then shuffled into his own room.

Nathan was blissfully unaware that what Roger had been doing was stalling. He had no idea that while Roger happily talked about staying up all night and asked questions about where Nathan was sleeping, Maureen had taken some of Roger's advice and used the time to push her bed until it was against the door, barring anyone from entering or leaving. Some time later, when Nathan snuck across the dark living room to Maureen's door, he was perturbed to find that something was blocking it from opening. His increasingly forceful attempts were the only thing that kept Maureen from an otherwise sound night of dreamless sleep.

The next night, even with the bed in its usual position, he did not come to her room.

* * *

_March 1991_

"Hey, Mo."

Maureen looked up from the table she was wiping down and stared at Roger, "What are you doing here? You know I'm working, right?"

Roger wrinkled his nose and looked around the diner. The only other person there was an old client nursing a cup of tea he was surreptitiously adding clear liquid from a silver hipflask to.

"Uh-_huh_, I can see you're swamped. Listen, it's important."

Maureen arched an eyebrow and folded her arms, "_How _important?"

Roger grinned a little uncomfortably, "My buddy Finn—the drummer in my band, remember?—he just got his own place and has a spare room. Asked if I was interested and…well, I said yes."

Maureen felt her heart plummet past the bottom of her stomach and straight through the floor. Her hands unconsciously clenched around her elbows. She was not exactly someone who kept her emotions bottled up and her feelings must have shown on her face because Roger looked extremely worried.

"Maureen—"

"What? You're just gonna ditch me? After _everything_?" she exclaimed loudly. The drunk in the corner raised his head curiously and the manager poked his head out of the office door, scowling in disapproval.

"No, I'm—"

"All that crap about being my best friend was just _bullshit _then, was it? Did you ever give a damn about me or were you just waiting till the next best thing—!"

"Maureen!" Roger cried, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her a little, "Shut up, okay? I want you to come with me."

"…huh?"

Roger sighed impatiently and rolled his eyes, "I already talked to Finn about it. He's fine with you coming if you help with rent. I trust him and I know he won't try anything like Nathan did," his face darkened a little just at the mention of their roommate and Maureen felt comforting warmth spread across her body, "I figured it would be good to get out of there and in with someone we can rely on more. What do you say?"

Maureen blinked a little in surprise. Obviously, she was relieved that Roger was not abandoning her—more than relieved, _overjoyed_—but the idea of leaving the place that had just started to feel like home was quite daunting. She trusted Roger and his judgment with her life but how could she be sure that this new twist would not take them somewhere worse?

(Of course, in later life, she would be glad that she listened to Roger. The next few years would be some of the best of her life and, after they passed, it would be a long time before she could again trust Roger's judgment.)

"Earth to Maureen? What do you think?"

Maureen bit her lip and thought back to two years earlier, when she had convinced him to run away with her to New York. It had been a plan full of holes and with plenty of potential to break them, but he had agreed to it anyway because he _knew _that it could end up being one of the best decisions of their lives.

(And, in a strange way, it was.)

"Okay. What the hell. Let's do it."


	12. To Days Of Inspiration

**Only got two reviews for last chapter … which is actually still awesome. The lucky streak had to end sooner or later and I'm just happy to have readers. :) I can't blame you anyway; I reread it and it was pretty crap. Anywho, this is basically a simple, drama-free chapter because soon my storyline will meet more canonical events and I wanted to set the scene a little more. But, yeah, not too much drama. I hope you enjoy anyway! Let me know your thoughts about the story and where it's okay and, er, thanks for reading!**

**Oh, and the centre align tool is useless and can quit failing on me or go die. Sorry about that.**

* * *

**To Days Of Inspiration**

_Brring! Brring!_

"This is the Davis residence. We are not in right now, but please leave a message at the tone."

_Beep._

"Hey, Mom, it's Roger. I know it's been a while since I called. Um … just wanted to let you know that I've moved recently. My new address should be on my last postcard; I, uh, hope you got it. Everything's good here. I'm healthy and happy and, well … I hope you guys are too. Say hi to Richie and Becca. Tell them … tell them I say hi. Bye."

_Beep._

_

* * *

_

_May 1991_

"Oh my GOD! What the hell have you done?"

Roger grimaced and self-consciously pulled the hood of his green sweatshirt up, "Back off, Maureen."

"No, no," Maureen grinned, leaping off of the couch and attempting to tug the hood back down, "I wanna see!"

Behind them, Finn slammed the front door shut and grinned, "Aww, Roger, don't get embarrassed."

"Guys, _fuck. Off._"

"Screw you," Finn replied cheerfully before tearing Roger's hands away from his head and pinning them behind his back, "Quick, Mo!"

"_Finn—!_"

Too late. The hood fell back behind his neck and Maureen snickered triumphantly, drinking in the view of Roger's new hairstyle. Reddening, Roger jerked away from Finn's grip.

"Well," he said bitterly, resigned to his fate, "Get on with it."

Maureen cocked her head contemplatively, examining his appearance with a critical eye. If anyone was not afraid to share strong and frank views on someone's looks, that anyone was probably Maureen.

"It's weird," she commented at last, "I kinda like it."

Roger's eyebrows shot up in surprise just as Finn laughed heartily and clapped him on the shoulder, "_SEE? _Didn't I tell you it would look cool?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Maureen remarked dryly. Roger scowled and stuck the middle finger of his right hand up, making Finn cackle and Maureen pout, before striding towards the bathroom to inspect how he looked himself.

It still felt strange, not having the warm weight of hair curling around his face—he had been surprised at how cold his ears were on the walk home. It was even weirder looking in the mirror, seeing the reflection, the short, spiked hair, no longer sandy but bright platinum blonde. He uncertainly ran a hand through it and wrinkled his nose a little. Finn had insisted it was a rock-star style and now that the band was taking off, he needed to look the part.

Whatever it was, it would take some getting used to.

* * *

_Brring! Brring!_

"Hi, you've reached Finn Tanner's place. I'm not home so wait for the beep and talk like I am. If you're calling for the freaks who've invaded, Roger or Maureen … uh, same thing. Peace out!"

_Beep._

"What a charming message. Maureen, it's your mother; when will you start returning my calls? Darling, we just got your letter—why are you quitting your job, Maureen? I hope you're looking into enrolling at college, missy. Eddie and I just wanted to say we love you. Your father does too, but he's currently in Europe with Fiona and your brother. He comes back next week and I'm sure we'd all love it if you came to see us. You do know we've started speaking again? Please think about it—and about that school idea! Remember, sweetie, you could do so much more! Anyway, call me back. And tell your friend, Roger, that his mother is worried sick. I saw her at the supermarket the other day and you wouldn't _believe_ how—!"

_Beep._

* * *

In many ways, Finn's apartment was like the one Maureen and Roger had just left. There was only a small kitchen, small bathroom, two bedrooms and a sofa one of them had to double as a bed. The biggest differences were the sleeping arrangements—it was Maureen's turn on the couch—and the location: the building was in a worse part of town, on the fifth floor instead of the first. It meant that going home after a gig was more strenuous than the gig itself but Roger did not mind.

The ambience of this apartment, though, was an improvement. Finn lived there full-time and never seemed to mind that what was supposed to be a little bachelor pad had turned into a crowded home for three. Finn was twenty-four with mousy brown hair and hazel eyes, pale skin, a smattering of freckles across his nose and a contagious grin. He played bass in the Well Hungarians and often Roger would come home from shopping for food or exploring New York (the novelty had yet to wear off) and find Finn tuning both his bass and Roger's acoustic, loudly declaring that he wanted them to play something together. If Maureen came home in a miserable mood (these were bad days, days when she almost missed Nathan and sex and the inexplicably good feelings they could evoke in her), Finn would bounce about and crack jokes until she laughed. As time went on, Finn Tanner became almost a role model to Roger.

(Of course, there were bad parts about Finn Tanner. Like how he would often be found, feet propped up on the table and a beer can in hand, at ten o'clock in the morning. Or how he would get crabby and frustrated when he had not had his fix, whether that was alcohol or caffeine or dope. Or how he did not mind if Roger, still young and unaware enough to be impressionable, watched him as he took his hit—how, sometimes, he let Roger try it. These were parts of Finn Tanner that neither Roger nor Maureen would realize were important until it was too late.)

* * *

_March 1992_

One year after they moved into Finn's apartment, Roger and Maureen encountered the landlord.

It was close to midnight. Roger and Finn were returning home from a gig, both relatively tipsy and had met up with Maureen. Months previously, Maureen had quit her waitressing job after tracking down Roger's old bartending colleague Kelly and begging her to show her the ropes of performance art. Even since, Maureen had become Kelly's protégé of sorts, watching as she organized her displays and rehearsed and then performed in front of anyone who would listen. Kelly clearly appreciated her enough to give her a small cut of whatever money she made—this, Maureen trumpeted about with pride. _My first acting job!_

They had all had a long day and were looking forward to crashing into their respective beds. However, it was not to be. Waiting outside of their flat was a portly, middle-aged man in a grey t-shirt and jeans, tapping his foot with his arms folded.

"Oh crap," Finn groaned. He was still a little puffed out from climbing the stairs and both his younger roommates sensed this was not a conversation he wanted to have while sweaty and red-faced. "What do you want, Mr. Nowlin?"

Nowlin stepped forward into Finn's personal space, eyes narrowed, "The rent."

"We _paid _it, I _gave _it to you…!"

"You're short, Tanner," Nowlin snarled, "And it's not the first time either!"

Finn rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath.

"You know, you're startin' to get on my last nerve, kid…"

"Hey," Roger interrupted, eyes wide with concern, "We don't need any of that."

"We can pay!" Maureen added enthusiastically, nodding her head. Nowlin eyed her suspiciously and Roger could almost hear the unspoken question: _What the fuck is she on? _Grumbling, Finn pulled his wallet out of his pocket and thumbed out a number of the fresh notes he had earned that night. Roger's eyes widened a little more.

"Finn," Maureen began a little hesitantly, but was silenced by Finn's dark look. He held up his fistful of money impatiently.

"This enough?" he asked in a hostile tone. Nowlin snatched the money from Finn's grasp and flipped through it, his watery eyes flicking from the wad back up to the three standing in front of him.

"Don't let this happen again, kid," he cautioned them, pointing a finger threateningly in Finn's face, "I won't be so lenient next time."

Then he was off, ambling past them towards the stairs and unaware of the rude and violent gestures Maureen made behind his back. Finn was positively fuming; it was all Roger could do to stop him from going after the landlord and smashing his face in. He was silent, white with rage, until the pair had wrestled him onto the couch in their apartment and Maureen had placed a bottle of beer in front of him.

"Fuck him," he announced vehemently before scooping up his bottle and swallowing down five quick gulps. Maureen's eyes flitted anxiously between him and Roger, who was much more accustomed to his attitude. Roger just nodded encouragingly and moved to perch next to Finn.

"I'm tired," Maureen whined a little, eyeing the couch with a glum expression. Roger quickly reassured her that she could lie down on his bed; he had a feeling he still needed to calm Finn down. _Why can't we just have one normal roommate?_

Maureen quietly shut Roger's bedroom door behind her—her bid of "Night, guys," going unanswered—and Roger turned to Finn.

"Finn, would you snap out of it?" he demanded, "You're really freaking us out here."

"Sorry," Finn responded roughly, squeezing his eyes shut, "I just … I get so fucking _pissed_."

"I know."

"I paid the fucker. In _full_. I know I did. What an asshole," Finn broke off here and reached again for his drink. "We should just stop paying rent. Teach him a lesson."

"Yeah, yeah," Roger said patiently, patting Finn on the shoulder, "I hear you."

"I'm serious."

"I know. I think we all just need to sleep, okay?" Roger rubbed the other man's back for a moment, before standing. Finn remained seated, blinking up at him.

"Hey, dude, wanna stick around for a minute?" he asked suddenly, and Roger's eyebrows rose, "I got something, s'all."

Despite himself, Roger lowered himself back onto the couch and felt that familiar exciting throb of anticipation. Some part of him hoped—_knew_—that Finn had brought something good. More weed, perhaps? It had been a while since his last joint…

What Finn withdrew from his pocket was contained inside the same plastic baggie as weed, but was definitely _not _weed. It was grainy and pure white—for a moment, Roger's muddled brain thought it was sugar. _What, are we baking fucking cakes here? _

"Wassat?"

Finn laughed, a grating, forced sound that sent prickles up Roger's spine, "What, you never seen coke before, man?"

Roger shook his head and decided against telling him that coke had always been just Pepsi's rival to him. His dazed, drunken mind was slow to react to what Finn was offering; and it would be hours before he realized the danger and consequences of what he was about to agree to.

"Well, no time like the present. You in?"

Roger considered this for a minute, looking between the tempting little bag and Finn's inviting smirk. After a second, he shrugged, "Yeah, why not?"

After all, what was the danger?

* * *

_Brring! Brring!_

"Hi, you've reached Finn Tanner's place. I'm not home so wait for the beep and talk like I am. If you're calling for the freaks who've invaded, Roger or Maureen … uh, same thing. Peace out!"

_Beep._

"Hey, Mo, it's Roger. Just wanted to call and say we're gonna be late home. Uh, some fans of the band are offering to take us out for drinks. I'll see you tomorrow."

_Beep._

* * *

_December 1992_

"Could you stop bringing your stupid groupies home with you?"

Roger glanced up from the coffee pot to stare at Maureen. It was almost one o'clock in the afternoon but both had only just awoken and neither of them looked their best. Roger was in only a pair of grey sweatpants and a quick look in the bathroom mirror had told him that his short hair was sticking up at all angles and his eyes were red-ringed—he had been flying high last night and he imagined the effects were evident on his face.

"You what?"

Maureen's brow furrowed in annoyance. Her face was devoid of make-up, Roger realized, and her hair unkempt and wild. She looked like she was feeling the effects of last night as well and she had not even been with him.

"Your _groupies_," she repeated a little mockingly, and then pulled a face, "Last night's one was a squealer."

Roger felt his lips twitch a little, "Jealous?"

"Go to hell."

Roger started to laugh a little, before noticing the serious look on Maureen's face, "Hey, are you okay?"

Maureen shrugged half-heartedly and folded her arms, "Nothing. Just … Kelly and I sort of had a fight."

"A fight?"

"Um, yeah. I mean … a big one. She kind of doesn't want to see me again."

"Oh," Roger said, eyebrows up somewhere around his hairline, "So a pretty big fight."

Maureen nodded. Roger heaved a sigh and pushed a cup filled almost to the brim with black coffee towards her.

"What happened?"

Maureen shrugged again, staring into her mug as though it held all the answers, "She found out I was looking into drama classes at NYU. She freaked—she thought I was insulting her 'methods' and 'abandoning' her or something—" she scoffed, complete with air quotes, "and we had a massive argument…"

Roger grimaced and was about to apologize.

"…last week."

Or not.

"So I was—understandably!—pretty mad. So I went to this club a few days ago with a couple of people I know and … um, I met this guy and …"

She trailed off and Roger's face contorted again. His head was beginning to thump and he _really _did not want to hear any … specific details. He was not awake enough or drunk enough for that.

"… and I wasn't gonna say anything cos I figured she would get even angrier. I dunno, people act like sex is such a big deal. Anyway, someone must've seen something because someone told her and she stormed in all screaming and crying and shit and I just sort of took off," she raised her eyes to meet Roger's and attempted a smile, "No biggie."

For a second, Roger did not know what to say. "Uhm … would I be right in thinking … I mean, you and Kelly …?"

He looked at her pointedly and she quickly cottoned on, "Oh, yeah, we do. I mean, _did_. I don't … know."

There was a pause.

"I'm sorry," Roger said in a stunned tone. Maureen smiled cynically.

"Whatever," she said flippantly and took a sip of her undoubtedly bitter coffee, "At least I learned something."

Here, she strode to the sink, dumped what was left of her coffee in the sink and banged the mug onto the sideboard.

"I am _sick _of being the one humiliated," she declared, "and it _won't _happen again."

* * *

You would be wrong to believe that Roger and Maureen's time living here was all bad, all about problems with the landlord or drugs or romance. There were good days too: days when all three would go out together and just talk about anything; days when Maureen would pull the covers off of her bed, throw him over herself and Roger, get comfortable and complain furiously about her parents' most recent antics; days when the Well Hungarians would play a great set and Roger would spiral off on a natural high; days when they would find that little café they had stopped at on their first Christmas in the City and, towards the end of the night, find themselves singing and dancing along with men and women just like them—struggling but talented, unafraid to live outside the box. Days before disease and heartbreak and fear of tomorrow. Days before the past and the future ceased to exist.

* * *

_Brring! Brring!_

"Hi, you've reached Finn Tanner's place. I'm not home so wait for the beep and talk like I am. If you're calling for the freaks who've invaded, Roger or Maureen … uh, same thing. Peace out!"

_Beep._

"Roger, it's your mother. It's been a while since you called and I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday. I hope your gift gets to you on time and we all hope to hear from you soon. I love you, honey."

_Beep._

"Maureeeeeeeeen! Sweetie, it's Fiona! Your dad and I just wanted to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY! And we're thinking of you! You're twenty-two now—how time flies! We hope you have an amazing day, babe! Talk to you soon!"

_Beep._

"Hey, Finn, Rog. It's Dean. Just wanted to let you know that we _got the fucking Pyramid Club spot_. Don't believe me? Call the manager. We fucking did it!"

_Beep._

"Tanner, Davis, Johnson, it's Nowlin. Since you guys apparently are _never _in and have ignored all my warnings, I thought I'd call to let you know that I'm done with you 'forgetting' to pay up the rent. This is your thirty day notice—by the end of June, you have to be out."


	13. Enter Tom Collins

**It feels like I've been updating more frequently recently … and I'm not sure what to say about that. Um, sorry? :) The title really speaks for itself. Be warned that Collins is probably wildly OOC, so I apologize if he is. Other than that, I only have one thing to say: the building the gang (as I can't think of what else to call them…) eventually end up living in only shows them as its inhabitants but the way I figure is that it must have more than two of its apartments occupied. They must have neighbours? Well, in this, they only have one and he's not relevant to anything but I was just curious. Be warned, I'm basing my description of the building and loft off the movie. God, for someone who hasn't seen the live show, I know a ridiculous amount. Feel free to mock me and my stupid obsessions. Oh, and I don't own anything. Haven't even seen it live, remember? ;) Please review!**

**

* * *

**

**Enter Tom Collins**

_June 1993_

She could not believe it. Over two years of living in that tiny, crappy, amazing apartment, and Nowlin was just booting them out like trash. Just another sick turn in the suckfest her life was rapidly becoming.

Maureen Johnson fucking hated landlords.

"Don't you think you're over-reacting a bit?" Roger asked her, as though unaware that his face was drawn and his voice was strained and he was puffing on his cigarettes like a chimney in his anxiety. Maureen looked at him in exasperation.

"Roger, we're getting kicked out. We have no place to go. We have no home. We are home_less_. We're just like those poor guys on the street begging for change and food and a second chance at happiness and comfort, and we're too _pretty _for the street, Roger!"

Roger's eyes narrowed, "You said those guys freak you out. And don't call me pretty."

"That was before I was _one _of them, pretty boy!"

Maureen wondered if it would have been better if Finn had stuck with them. Finn was older, more experienced, and he would be much calmer and more rational than Roger and Maureen (probably combined). As it was, Finn had jumped ship the moment Nowlin's message was received; his mother had agreed to let him come home until he was back on his feet. Unfortunately, he was in no position to ask if his former roommates could crash there for a few days, and did not offer to help out or anything. Maureen was furious and vowing never to speak to him again; because they were band-mates, Roger was a bit more understanding.

They both briefly considered the option of begging their families for help as well, but quickly discarded the notion. For one thing, both were too proud and stubborn to crawl back to their parents; for another, after four years living in the City together, neither was sure that they could cope here alone. Sticking together was not just a scheme to save money—they were friends and the only support the other had.

With a dramatic sigh, Maureen flopped onto her stomach and hid her face in the carpet, "We're doomed, doomed, _doooooomed_."

Roger did not reply.

* * *

_July 1993_

They lasted until the hottest part of the summer staying with friends and acquaintances for a few nights at a time and frantically saving up for an apartment of their own. Roger was still playing with the band, which became increasingly better money after their set at the Pyramid Club. Maureen, meanwhile, found a steady job at a little coffee shop. The work was monotonous, the hours long and the pay low but it was a job and, because of the shop's growing unpopularity due to chains like Starbucks, she was often left with plenty of unoccupied time to think up new ideas for performances. She had not actually staged anything just yet, but had learned plenty during her stint with Kelly and knew it was only a matter of time now.

It was during one of her shifts, during the hottest time of year, that a huge black man burst into the café and literally _dived _behind the counter.

Maureen had, up until then, been completely alone, and was doodling on the slip of paper usually reserved for taking orders. The man's entrance had caused her to jump and the pen to scratch a heavy black line through her drawing. As he cowered behind the counter, breathing heavily, a stunned Maureen was torn between yelling at him and running to find the manager.

"Sir," she eventually spluttered, "What the—?"

"SSSSSSHH!" the man hissed, waving a finger over his mouth as if to indicate she should be quiet. Maureen reeled back in offence and folded her arms. _Asshole!_

Before she could retort—or kick him, depending on how her brain demanded she react—the door swung open again and two police officers stepped in, eyeing her suspiciously. Maureen felt any irritation drain away and leave the heavy, cold feeling of unease.

The taller one—had to be at least six-foot-two—cleared his throat and stepped in front of his partner, "Miss—"

"Ididn'tdoitdon'tarrestme."

The policeman arched an eyebrow and glanced back at the fairer, burlier one. This man sighed and took over.

"We aren't here to arrest you, ma'am," he told her in a gruff voice and Maureen relaxed, "We're here in pursuit of a man suspected of causing a public disturbance in a Wal-Mart. Eyewitnesses say he took off this way."

Beside her, the crouching man snickered. Maureen opened her mouth to answer but quite found herself with nothing to say. _There's a fugitive hiding in my coffee shop. What. The. Fuck._

"Have you seen anything unusual, miss?" the other man prompted, and gesturing with one hand at about the level of his chin, "About yea high, black, apparently in a long coat and a dark blue or black beanie hat? Possibly running?

As surreptitiously as possible, Maureen flitted her eyes between the officers in front of her and the man at her feet. Check, check, check and check. _Crap_.

"Aaaah…" she began, pretending to think as she stalled for time. The man started frenetically shaking his head. He did not _look _like a criminal; he actually looked really cool, with a little black beard and large, warm brown eyes. Maureen felt her heart melt a little; _oh, screw it, I'm an actress after all_.

"Nope, sorry, officers. Haven't seen a guy like that," Maureen told them apologetically. Then she smirked deviously, "Can I get you boys anything, while you're here?"

The hidden man, in the middle of a relieved slump, froze. It was all Maureen could do not to smile.

"Sorry but we're on duty right now," the shorter one replied, oblivious to the slightly hopeful look being wiped off his colleague's face, "But thanks anyway. Sorry for taking up your time."

"Sorry for wasting yours," Maureen rebuked, plastering an expression of remorse on her face. Smiling gratefully, the policemen shuffled out of the door and Maureen waited ten seconds after she could no longer see them to nudge the man with her foot. He scrambled to a standing position and then glowered at her.

"_Can I get you boys anything?_" he mimicked in an awful, squeaky imitation of her voice. Maureen grinned.

"Shut up. I just saved your ass," she pointed out smugly. The man rolled his eyes jokingly and then vaulted over the counter as if he did so all the time.

"Thanks for that, by the way," he said conversationally as he straightened his clothes, "Here's hoping they don't come after me anymore. They got bigger fish to fry, murderers and rapists and thieves and whatnot, not innocent young hot shots such as myself trying to earn a pretty penny and treat his fellow shoppers to a little musical entertainment…"

"_What?_" Maureen exclaimed, even as laughter bubbled up in her throat and threatened to burst from her lips. The man shot her a charming smile as he sauntered to the door.

"Thanks again!" he called, and then was gone before Maureen even thought to ask his name.

* * *

That was not the last she was to see of this man. Only a week later, returning from her late shift, Maureen waked in to see her roommate triumphantly waving a copy of the newspaper in the air.

"I think I found us a place!"

Maureen felt a hopeful grin spread across her face. At the moment, they were staying with Jeanette, a young woman who was an avid follower of the Well Hungarians and … _friends _with Roger. While it was a nice apartment, both Roger and Maureen needed their own space and if Roger had discovered what Maureen was praying he had discovered, they might finally have a space that was all theirs.

"Let me see, let me see!" she shrieked, bouncing onto the sofa next to him.

"Wait, wait! Waaaait!" Roger cried, holding the newspaper out of reach and pushing his guitar off his lap and into safety, "Before you get excited, you should know it comes with a roommate."

Maureen slumped in disappointment, "So…it's _not_ our own place?"

"Mo—"

"Come on, Roger! We both know roommates have only fucked us over in the past!"

Roger cringed, "Bit harsh, Maureen. Besides, this guy is different," here, he shoved the paper under her nose, "Dude, it's a _loft_. On _Avenue B_. And the guy's a _college professor_," he tapped the advertisement a few times to emphasize his point. Maureen peered at the little box curiously.

"…Tom Collins?" she read, her eyebrows shooting up in amusement, "Like…the drink?

Smirking, Roger nodded.

"Okay, we have to get in touch with him just to tell him we love his name."

* * *

_August 1993_

It was not until early the next month that the pair could arrange a meeting. As it was, they had to agree to have Roger meet with Mr. Collins at lunchtime on the Saturday and Maureen had to get there once her early shift was finished.

The building was on the corner of 11th Street and Avenue B, an area that Maureen would soon love and be used to but, on that first day, was a little jumpy in. She had heard stories about this sort of place—drug dealers, addicts, prostitutes, muggers, the like. She was in broad daylight and no-one approached her but she still snuck a few nervous glances into every alley as she strode down the sidewalk, smiling sympathetically at the people curled up on the street. Her mood brightened significantly when she realized that, right by the industrial building that the apartment was in, there was a wide-open lot that, after a little work, _could _be perfect for her future shows…

The lobby of the building was a grubby little room (complete with graffiti staining the beige walls), empty except for the rows of pigeon holes on the left hand side. Out of approximately fifteen shelves, only three were labeled—_O. Wolgast _on the bottom right corner one, _M. Marquez _in the middle of the top row and, in the middle row, two spaces from the far left, was _T. B. Collins_. The loft was on the top floor, right under the roof, which meant that Maureen had to trek up ten flights of stairs to reach the right apartment. She was out of breath and drooping upon arriving at the door, as well as a little miserable. She twisted the knob and swung the front door open, entering the little room behind it. All there was in there was a small shoe rack and a second door—one with a handle this time. Behind it, she could faintly hear the words, "…used to be a music publishing factory…"

_Two doors, what the hell? This better be one good fricking—ohmigod this door SLIDES!_

Grinning, Maureen wrapped her hand around the hand and tugged, cheering up as the door glided with it with a grinding sound. The door alone made Maureen feel much better, so she practically skipped into the loft to meet the others.

The main room was huge. There was a kitchen—pretty spacious compared to the others Maureen had lived with—and the rest of the room was taken up with a metal table and chair set, a beaten-up couch and armchair, a chest of drawers on which a radio and telephone were perched, a coffee table and a colourful rug on the floor. There was a step, beyond which were a massive window and a window sill probably big enough to lie down on. There were two closed doors—one on both sides of the kitchen—to her left, and one more to the right. Outside the window, Maureen could see the red railings of a fire escape and, when she lifted her eyes, she found a glass skylight. _Holy shit!_

"Hey, Mo!" Roger's voice chirped and Maureen leveled her eyes back to the centre of the room. A smiling Roger, in his big leather jacket and old jeans, stood leaning on the metal table. Facing her, settled on the arm of the sofa, was…

Was…

Was…

Um.

"Hello!" Tom Collins—the fugitive, the guy who vaults counters, the man at her feet—greeted her cheerfully. Maureen's jaw dropped. The man adjusted his beanie and laughed, a great booming sound that seemed to warm her from head to toe.

"Uh, Maureen…?" Roger started hesitantly, glancing from his new acquaintance to his shell-shocked oldest friend. Mr. Collins laughed again.

"She's just paralyzed with fear," he cackled, "We've met before, y'see."

"You have?"

"Oh yeah. She damn well saved my life!" Mr. Collins declared, before striding over to Maureen and snapping his fingers in front of her face, "Wakey-wakey, drama queen!"

This jerked Maureen out of her trance, "HEY!"

Mr. Collins chuckled and glanced back at a confused Roger, "S'a long story," then he looked back at Maureen, "Small world, huh? Never even got your name and you still ended up here!"

"It's Maureen Johnson," Maureen threw out unnecessarily and then wryly added, "Just so you know."

Mr. Collins grinned again and then—to Maureen's surprise—turned and curled an arm around her shoulders, announcing, "I like this girl!"

Maureen knows, to this day, that she should have been confused and annoyed by such a gesture from a stranger. However, this was not just a stranger; this was _Tom Collins_. A man who would later be a wall of love and security, a man always happy to dole out advice, joke around, make you laugh, talk, even when he was in another state. Even in that first half-hug, he was warm and sturdy and Maureen could not help but lean into him. You could say that, in a weird and unconventional way, it was love at first sight.

Roger furrowed his brow further in perplexity as she practically nuzzled into this new man. Mr. Collins, however, misconstrued his expression (perhaps deliberately) and stepped forward, bringing Maureen with him.

"Don't think I leave anyone out in the cold," he stated, too seriously to be serious, "I like you too."

Then he used his other arm to drag Roger into the hug as well.

"No, no, no…!" Roger protested, but he was laughing as he did so. Mr. Collins eventually won him over and Roger, somewhat reluctantly, wrapped an arm around his back and tugged on the ends of Maureen's hair lightly.

"You guys better move in now," Mr. Collins pointed out, "Or this'll just be _awkward_."

Roger laughed again, "The place is awesome, sir. If you're happy with it—"

"Man, I'm _always _happy. And I'd love for you guys to move in, so long as you help me out with the rent. And quit with the 'sirs' and 'misters', will ya? You guys can call me Collins."


	14. To Ignite The Air

**I actually Googled Computer Age Philosophy to find out what it was. First result? "A Rent Group Dedicated to Collins". Outstanding. I still don't know what it is. Not a very happy chapter, this one, but I'm proud of it. Anyway, you guys know the drill. And I apologize for any glaringly OOC behavior. Thanks for reading!**

* * *

**To Ignite The Air**

The few first weeks in the loft were, to say the least, different. Good different. _Amazing _different. For the first time, Roger felt like he was part of something meaningful, like he was actually somebody worthwhile. The apartment was by no means glamorous but Roger still came to be familiar with and attached to its flaws _and _its good points. He was a young man in a successful band, living in the rough part of the City, and really _living_—not to mention, he was with two people who would come to mean the world to him.

After a day in the loft, Collins and Roger were friends. After a week, they were good friends and after a month Roger felt like they knew one another inside out. He knew that Collins was practically a _genius_ and taught Computer Age Philosophy (whatever the fuck _that _was—not even Collins seemed certain) at Columbia University. He knew that Collins was twenty-seven, a good five years older than him, and the only offspring of a stern Catholic school principal and a free-spirited artisan who fluttered in and out of his life when he was a child and disrupted his father's strict schedule for a few weeks at a time.

Finding out that Collins was gay had been the biggest revelation; they had both been a little tipsy, Collins had been utterly unprovoked when he announced it and, after a long discussion coving homophobia, racism, the World Wars, Maureen's sexuality and where the leak in the ceiling had come from, Roger was cool with it. It was not a huge deal anyway, like he had told Maureen when she first came out. If anything, Roger admired Collins more for how happy he was with it, how comfortable he was in his own skin.

"That's a weird thing to say," Collins had apparently taken it literally when Roger said this,"If I wasn't comfortable in my own _skin_, I'd be pretty much screwed, wouldn't I?"

"Shut up," Roger had retorted, chugging down what was left in his beer bottle, "You know what I mean."

"Yep. I have a fan!"

Roger had briefly considered throwing his bottle at him but then Collins laughed and before long he had forgotten about it.

Maureen and Collins were close too. It seemed Collins had taken her under his wing somewhat, especially when he found out about her interest in performance art. They would often spend hours at a time discussing what was wrong with society, how the corporate world was trying to swallow the lively Bohemian lifestyle and churn out a robotic civilization of grey stone buildings and evil, money-obsessed overlords. Or crap like that. It definitely made Maureen more self-righteous; she was more determined than ever to start her protesting and fight back against "the man". Collins was something of an anarchist—he liked to cause disturbance and break the rules just to shatter the tedium of people's day-to-day lives. Roger pictured it as dashing paints of all colours, a freaking _rainbow_, onto a dull, grey canvas. It was a stupid metaphor (right up Maureen's alley) but it suited him just fine. That's what Collins was, right—a splash of colour on the grey canvas of life. That was what Roger wanted to be.

* * *

_December 1993_

On Christmas Eve, four months after moving into the loft, Roger came home with something somewhat new.

"Hell_o_," Collins cried, leaning over from the couch to grab Roger's left wrist, "What have we here?"

"Collins!" Roger exclaimed, trying to jerk his arm away. It was embarrassing; Roger had had a few shots, maybe a joint or two and a hit of coke, and this pretty girl had dared him to do it. He had, only because he wanted to get off with her, which he totally did, but now that his high were wearing off, his whole arm was throbbing and he felt like a moron.

Collins ignored him, of course, and turned his arm over to examine the underside. What used to be clean white skin was now a painful red; what was not red was inked black. With surprisingly soft fingertips, Collins had traced the intertwining shapes as they curled up his forearm, and then fixed Roger with a reproachful look.

"What were you thinking?"

Roger yanked his arm back, bristling, "I was _thinking_ I was gonna go to bed."

"Look, Rog, there's nothing wrong with tattoos if you really want this, but," Collins stood and narrowed his eyes, drinking in Roger's glazed eyes and the redness around his nostrils, "you're obviously drunk or on something and I don't think—"

"Fuck you," Roger slurred, glaring at him, "Who the fuck do you think you are, my _father_?"

That probably was not the right thing to say, given that the moment the word slipped past his lips, he felt a pang in his gut and tears sting his eyes. Collins looked hurt as well and stepped forward to try and pull Roger into his arms.

"Rog, I was just trying to—"

"Well, _don't_!" Roger snapped. He ducked out of Collins' path and stormed into his room, slamming the door so hard behind him that he thought the walls were rattling. After a minute, he realized that it was just the room spinning and groaned.

_I need to lie down._

He stumbled to the edge of his bed and practically collapsed, burying his face in his pillow and taking long, deep breaths. He felt sick and exhausted and guilt was beginning to gnaw away at his conscience. He almost wanted Collins to burst in and scream at him, just so he could try and apologize to him.

Collins did not and Roger fell asleep.

It was hours later when Roger woke up in the darkness to a pounding headache and a rolling stomach. Before he could even think about throwing off the covers and making a run for the bathroom, the trash can was shoved to the side of his bed. Roger did not pause to ponder this as he leaned down and vomited into the bin. Cold sweat clung to his forehead, his body felt stiff and achy, his arm was in agony and Roger felt like shit. A warm hand pressed between his shoulders, rubbing soothingly down the line of his spine, attempting to relax the tight muscles of his back.

"Roger?" Maureen's voice whispered, "Roger, this is dangerous."

Roger did not reply, mostly because he could feel bile rising up in his throat again. Maureen exhaled shakily and glanced up and only then did Roger notice Collins in the doorway, framed by the light in the main room. It was too dark to see his expression.

"Were you guys watching me?" Roger asked confusedly, even though he barely got the words out before that feeling from before returning and he had to lean down again.

"You were restless and drunk…" Maureen muttered defensively but her hand never stopped stroking. Collins came forward, in just a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, his short black hair on show for once, and hunkered down in front of the pair.

"Whatever you were doing tonight, Rog, it's gotta stop," he told him, dark eyes shining with severity and _worry_, "You're too young for this."

"I know," Roger rasped, still hovering over the bucket, eyes tightly shut. If this had been earlier, he would have fought Collins' judgment, argued that he _wanted _this and everyone else was doing it and why was he so different, what gave Collins and Maureen the right to tell him this? But now, with his arm hurting and his stomach heaving and his friends' eyes filled with fear, Roger could not dispute them. He could not remember the last time someone had felt this passionately about his welfare, and the feeling of being loved swelled within him until he thought he would burst.

"So you'll stop? You'll take it easy?"

Roger nodded and could practically hear Collins' sigh of relief and Maureen's grin. A minute later, Roger's eyes flew open in surprise when about one hundred pounds of roommate draped herself over his back and pressed her face between his shoulder blades.

"And we'll help you every step of the way!" Maureen told him, her declaration muffled by the back of his shirt. Roger cast a bemused frown at Collins, who rolled his eyes.

"Girl, get off him," he nudged her hip with his hand, instantly cheerful again, "And help me clean this up. Boy's gotta sleep."

With a grimace, Maureen peeled away from Roger and stood. Turning his face away pointedly, Collins picked up the bin.

"Merry Christmas to me," he quipped and Roger would have hit him if he was not so ill.

* * *

_March 1994_

"Guess what. We're getting another roommate!"

Maureen stared at Collins. Roger stopped picking at his guitar to frown. Collins glanced between the two, as if expecting jubilance, before deadpanning, "Don't get up."

"Why?" Maureen asked, confused and a little upset, "Are we not good enough?"

Roger rolled his eyes in a 'trust Maureen to get over-emotional about it' kind of way. He had done well over the past three months, cutting down on the drinking and smoking and completely ditching the cocaine. The withdrawal had made him a little more short-tempered than usual but coke had been an occasional thing and it was not as bad as it could have been. (As it would be.)

"Mo, it's not like that," Collins insisted, comforting and exasperated all in one, "Look, he's a kid who just finished up a film course at Columbia. I've seen him around a few times, I like him and he needs a place to stay. Apparently he doesn't get on so well with his parents."

"But _Collins_…" Maureen whined, "Where is he even gonna stay? We've run out of rooms!"

"He's cool with the couch."

"But what about rent?"

"He's got a job. He's looking for another but he's not giving up his current one anytime soon."

"But…but…_fuck you for thinking this through._"

Roger's lips quirked and Collins pulled a face at Maureen.

"What if he's a jerk?" Roger offered from the sofa and Maureen pounced on the chance. "Yes! What if we hate him?"

"Are you kidding?" Collins asked incredulously, "He's only a year or two younger than you. And the guy's this real quiet, scrawny white thing. But he's sharp. And he's a good kid. And he's going out of his way to make this worth it to me. He's staying."

Maureen huffed and fell back onto the sofa, folding her arms and pouting like a child. Roger snickered to himself and looked back to his guitar.

"By the way, Rog, when's your gig tonight?"

Roger looked up and arched his eyebrow. For the last three months, one or both of his roommates had been coming to his shows to remind him to stay clean. It was annoying (he did not need someone watching his every move!) but necessary if he wanted to stay healthy and win their full trust back.

"Starts at nine-thirty at CBGB's," he replied and then frowned as Collins groaned.

"_Fuck._ I can't go tonight. Maureen?"

"Working," came the grumpy reply, "What are _you _doing?"

"Um, extra tuition," Collins answered. Unfortunately, Collins was a shitty liar. Maureen and Roger exchanged glances.

"_Reeeeeally?_" Maureen asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. There was a pause.

"Fuck you guys. I have a date."

"Ooh, a _date_!" Maureen squealed, leaping up, all angst temporarily forgotten, "Who is it? Do I know him? Is he cute? What are you gonna wear?"

"Geez, Mo, calm down," Collins said, this time only exasperated, "It's just dinner with an old student."

"What _is _it with you and old students?"

Collins glowered at Roger.

"Shame you're gonna have to cancel," Roger commented with a deliberately heavy sigh, ignoring Collins' scowl, "since you have to babysit me…"

It took a few seconds of silence and a second, heavier, sigh from Roger before Collins cracked. "Fine, fine, _fine_. You gonna stay safe?"

"Yessir."

"Okay then," Collins said and for a moment, Roger wondered why he really needed Collins' permission to go to a club alone.

The next moment, he decided not to wonder. Why question it when you get your way?

So that night, Roger took off into the City on his own for his set. While Collins was sat in the Life Café and charming the pants off his boyfriend and Maureen was working in that little coffee shop, he was up on stage with his band, singing and strumming and looking every inch the rock star. He was twenty-three years old, he was young and alive, he was happy and, if that night had gone a different way, perhaps he would have been young and alive and happy for years and years to come.

But towards the end of the gig, Roger's eye was drawn to the girl at the bar. The girl with red-gold hair and blue eyes, pink lips stretched into a smile as she gazed up at him. The girl with the smile that could have lit up all of New York City.

That night, Roger would fall in love and keep on falling.


	15. Here With His Camera

**I have a shitload to do for school in the next couple of weeks so I don't know when I will be able to update again. I hope this chapter is okay—if you see any OOC-ness or spelling/grammar errors, let me know. Otherwise, enjoy!**

* * *

**Here With His Camera**

_March 1994_

Early the next morning, Maureen was awakened by the sound of knocking on the front door. Yawning, clad only in a white tank top and a pair of lacy black underwear, she trudged to the door, pulled it to the side and was greeted with the lens of a camera.

"…uh?" she started, oh-so-eloquently, before realizing that behind the lens was a wide, unnaturally red face.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry!" a voice squeaked. The camera—an old, clunky-looking thing—ceased its whirring and was pulled out of her vision. Only then did Maureen's sleep-addled brain comprehend that she had just been filmed practically naked by a complete stranger. She shrieked and leapt back.

"Who the _HELL _are you?" she yelled. The owner of the camera fumbled, stammering, before extending a shaky hand.

"I'm _really _sorry," he repeated, "I didn't mean—I—I was just—Mark. It's Mark, Mark Cohen. I was looking f-for Professor Collins?"

The man was a small, pale thing, about Maureen's height, with strawberry blonde hair that stuck up in all directions and wide blue eyes made even rounder by thick glasses. He was slight of build but wrapped protectively in a large brown coat and blue and white scarf; in his gloved hands, he carried only his camera while a suitcase sat innocently in the front hall. His face was still scarlet and Maureen felt a pang of sympathy in the midst of her affront.

"Well, warn me next time," she harrumphed, before storming back towards her bedroom, leaving the little man bewildered and humiliated in the doorway.

"Fuck it…" she hissed to herself, hunting through her wardrobe for something clean. When was the last time that any of them had done any laundry? By the look of her bedroom floor, on which a layer of used clothes had accumulated, it had been a while. Hopefully this new kid would be one of those ultra-tidy, anal-retentive types … trusting that Maureen had not just scared him away. _Fuck it._

She had not meant to terrify the guy or anything. A camera in the face certainly was not _unwelcome_—it was just that she was not made up and looked terrible and being on camera without at least any _trousers_ on was still on a strict need-to-know basis. He could not just surprise her like that! God!

Finally, Maureen pulled out some clean clothes: a faded, tight pair of jeans that Maureen was pretty sure she had bought in junior year. But they would do for now. She tugged them on, attempted to tame her bushy dark hair into submission, lathered some make-up on and was back out in no more than fifteen minutes.

The man—Mark—was now perched on the couch, his suitcase on its side next to him and his camera a safe distance away. His face had returned to a more human colour. He leapt up when he heard her enter the room and hesitantly tried to apologize again, "I'm really sorry about that, Miss, if I had—"

Maureen sighed, bored of apologies, "It's fine."

"I was just … I dunno, I film a lot, I like to film and I wanted to commemorate my first home in the City and … er, I sort of expected it to be Collins. So, um …"

Mark smiled then—only a tiny smile, uncertain and shy, yet strangely endearing. Maureen folded her arms and grinned back, her face practically splitting in half.

"It's okay. Just don't show it to anyone who hasn't already seen me naked," she commanded, and then laughed loudly. Mark laughed too (probably more out of relief than amusement) and then once again held out his hand.

"I'm sorry, I didn't get your—"

"Gah, stop saying you're sorry!" Maureen giggled, grabbing his hand and giving it a few hard pumps, "Maureen Johnson. At your service!"

Mark's smile grew. Maureen released his hand and then gestured around.

"I suppose you'll need the grand tour!" she proclaimed. Mark shook his head hastily.

"No, it's okay. I don't want to trouble you. Besides, I've seen enough," he said without thinking and then blushed when Maureen's eyebrows shot up at the implication, "Uh, oh _shit_—"

Unabashed, Maureen waved a hand, "If you're sure. Couch is here; kitchen's over there. You're splitting a wardrobe with our roommate Roger. And Collins was talking about looking at beds too, so you might end up sharing a room with someone."

"Sounds good. By the way, where is Collins?"

Maureen shrugged, "Hell if I know. He had a, uh, _meeting_ last night."

"Oh?"

"Mmmhmm. With a former student."

"Good for—"

"They're probably fucking."

"I gathered."

Maureen grinned again, "Well, if you need any help, you know where I am."

Mark nodded. He still looked sheepish, an expression she had seen far too much on him, and tried to hide his mortification by focusing all his attention on his luggage. "Well, nice to have met you. Maureen."

He said her name almost reverently, like she was something special, like the last half-an-hour had not been completely and utterly awkward. Maureen repressed the urge to roll her eyes at the dweeb.

"You too. Mark," she mimicked, and then strode away to get properly ready. She was about eighty percent sure that Mark's eyes were burning holes into her ass but when she glanced back over her shoulder, he was steadfastly unpacking his suitcase. She carelessly dismissed him as 'quiet and probably gay' and ducked into the bathroom. In her defense, she had no idea at the time that this quiet, probably gay man who had inadvertently filmed her half-naked would be the first person she would ever truly fall in love with.

* * *

By the time dusk fell, Maureen was beginning to worry. Not only had she been cooped up in the loft all day on her day off, watching the newbie like a hawk in order to ensure that he did not mess up anything, but Roger and Collins had not come back at all. It was not normal; Collins should have called and, with Roger still getting off some heavy-duty habits, now was not a good time for a vanishing act. As the sun sank in the darkening sky, Maureen spread out on her bed, took some deep breaths and told herself that panicking would give her wrinkles. She needed to _relax_.

There was a series of knocks at the door. Maureen groaned; _not _what she needed right now.

"What?" she called out. A moment later, the door opened and Mark poked his head through, blinking at her.

"Are you okay?" he asked, sounding honestly concerned. Maureen closed her eyes and sighed.

"Peachy," she replied sarcastically, "What do you want?"

"Oh, I—I was thinking. I haven't really been to this area before, and we have nothing in the fridge, so I thought we could go out and get something," he paused, "It might be good for me to explore this place a little and you and I could—"

"Marky, are you asking me out?" Maureen demanded. She could practically _hear _Mark's shock.

"What? No! I mean, if you—no, I just thought it would be nice … If you don't want to—"

"I didn't say that," pointed out Maureen. Silence.

"Um, _do_ you want to?"

"God yes."

* * *

Dinner with Mark was, surprisingly, good. Once he got some alcohol in him—though, Lord, he was only just old enough to drink—he stopped getting embarrassed so easily and became pretty interesting and witty conversation. Maureen actually found herself, more than once, leaning back in the chair in the Life Café, throwing her head back and laughing at something he had said.

She told him a little about her life—omitting details such as her parents' divorce, Roger, being bisexual and that whole fucked-up year with Nathan on the grounds that they were all just so _complicated_—and, in return, he told her about his. Mark Cohen was the only son of a conservative Jewish couple living in Scarsdale; he had an older sister, Cindy, and a gaggle of nieces and nephews. He had loved filming since childhood and defied his parents' wishes by coming to New York to pursue a career in documentary films; they had wanted him to become an engineer or something. His scarf was his second most valuable possession because his grandmother had knitted it for him the winter before she died. He could dance—_that _was the biggest revelation—and decided to prove this after his second beer by tangoing her around the Café, much to the delight of every other patron.

"How about girls?" Maureen asked when the flush in her cheeks had died down, "Any sad little girl waiting back for you in Scarsdale?"

Mark pulled a face, "As _if_."

"Come on. What's wrong with you? Why wouldn't a girl want a piece?"

Mark laughed and shook his face, "Naw. I _did _have something with this one girl…but…"

"Ooh?" Maureen leaned forward, interested, "Tell me about her."

Mark shrugged, picking at the remains of his dinner, "Her name was Nanette. She was the rabbi's daughter."

"Oh my _God_," Maureen cackled, almost choking on her drink. Mark rolled his eyes.

"It wasn't like that," he argued, "I've known her since I was thirteen and we've basically been together that long."

Maureen's eyebrows bounced up, "Yikes. So you're pretty good at relationships?"

Mark snorted and stretched his lips back in a fake, rueful imitation of the smile Maureen had glimpsed earlier, "Apparently not."

Maureen fell silent then, instead opting to close her mouth around her straw and avert her eyes. Mark sighed and changed the subject. Maureen did not bring up the girl again for the rest of the night and Mark did not volunteer any more information.

* * *

"This was nice," Maureen commented, pulling the front door shut behind her. Mark unwound his scarf from his neck and grinned.

"I know. I mean, that place was…Christ, it was amazing! I should've brought my camera."

Maureen laughed, "Oh yeah! I'm dressed this time."

Chuckling, Mark unzipped his jacket and flung it onto the table in an almost automatic gesture. It was, Maureen realized, as though he already felt at home here, in this loft. With her. She did not notice this with annoyance or astonishment but rather with glee. She liked this boy; she _wanted _him here. She wondered if her no-show roommates would feel the same.

As if on cue … _Bang!_

Mark and Maureen leapt a foot in the air as the door crashed open and Roger threw himself into the loft. He was laughing a little and seemed to pay them no heed as he shut the door behind him. Then, he propped his guitar case on the wall and then turned around, leaning against the metal, and smiled widely.

"Hey, guys!" he announced cheerfully, and then pointed at a baffled Mark, "You must be the new guy! Hi, I'm Roger."

"Mark," Mark muttered quietly, still taken aback, "Um, it's a pleasure—"

"Roger," Maureen interrupted, fixing her old friend with a furious glare, "What the hell are you doing? Where have you _been_? It's been a whole day!"

"Sorry, Maureen," Roger said, though he did not sound remorseful or apologetic—perhaps he could learn a thing or two from Mark—"But things just got so crazy and I wound up having the best night of my life and I forgot to call and I didn't touch anything, I _swear_."

Frowning, Maureen shook her head to clear her mind. Roger certainly did not look like he had taken anything—his nose looked undamaged, his pupils were not blown, his hands were not shaky and he was not disoriented—but he sure as hell wasn't making any sense.

"What do you mean?" she asked, "What happened last night?"

Roger smiled—a dazzling, overjoyed grin that told Maureen that something huge, something amazing, something _life-changing_, had happened the night before. She just had no idea how this moment would lead to events spiraling out of his, her, anyone's control. And it would all begin with one person.

"_April_, Maureen," he replied, "April happened."


	16. The Eyes of A Young Girl

**Sorry about the minor delay! I've been thinking about what I have planned for this story and I came to a devastating conclusion: this story's got a while to go. :O I hope you guys are in for the long haul…**

**Just a note: I do love Mark. And Antony Rapp. Okay, end of note. Enjoy!**

* * *

**The Eyes of A Young Girl**

April was, by no means, the sort of girl Roger should have been interested in. She was hot, yeah, but it was always sort of assumed that the woman who would eventually capture his heart would be _different_. She would be sassy, she would not take any crap, she would stand out. Sort of like the next girl Roger would fall for. But first came April.

Who was just another one of the girls screaming his name at a gig.

* * *

_March 1994_

Something about that _smile_. It was a demure, shy little smile, the kind that caught any man's attention even from across a crowded room. Or from the top of a brightly lit stage. Something about it warmed Roger from the inside out and he very almost trailed off mid-song, came _this close _to leaping off stage and running to talk to her. It was like he was a teenager again. His hands were even sweaty.

After the set, Roger shrugged on his leather jacket and ventured out onto the dance floor, his trusty guitar tight in hand. Many people stopped him, told him he was great, offered him a drink or a joint or something but he had promised Collins and Maureen that he would play the set and go straight home. He was in no position to piss either of them off.

Then that girl—with the red-gold hair and the blue eyes and the smile that could have lit up all of New York City—had stepped into his path and he stopped up short.

"Hey," she said and giggled. Despite himself, a slow grin spread over Roger's face and he actually found himself uttering the words, "Hey, yourself." _Oh God_.

The girl giggled again, "I just wanted to say that, um, you were awesome up there. Like, seriously. Really. And if you're not too busy, do you…" she trailed off and peeked up at him through fiery bangs, "Er, wanna get a drink? Maybe?"

Roger knew he should not (after all, imagine the hissy fit Maureen would throw!) but then this girl smiled that goddamned smile again and Roger could not say no.

"Sure, I'd like that," he said, grinning himself, and her smile widened. If Roger thought that that damned Mona Lisa half-smile was gorgeous, this one fucking blew his mind. Expectantly, she held out a hand and he took it without thinking, allowed her to lead him through the throng of people to the bar while he remained bewitched by her.

"I'm April," she told him, almost as an afterthought. Roger snapped out of his trance. He had forgotten that he did not know her name.

"Roger," he introduced himself. She laughed, throwing her head right back and tossing her hair like they were shimmering red waves in the ocean she was. Deep and all-consuming.

"_Roger_," she repeated, giggling, "Shit, I was expecting something like Ringo or Bon Jovi, you know, something rock-starry," April shook her head and then seemed to catch herself, staring at him with wide blue eyes and a rapidly reddening face, "I like Roger though," she ducked her head in embarrassment. Her lips seemed to move soundlessly, as though she were chastising herself out loud. Roger's heart skipped a beat—something about this girl was just too irresistible.

"It's okay," he told her, eyes twinkling, "It just means you're buying."

The whole night was spent at the bar, talking about anything and everything and the sky was light pink when April and Roger eventually exited onto the street. Roger looked up at the dawning day and wondered if that and the girl next to him were some kind of symbolism that everything was about to change.

"This was fun," April murmured, watching him as he watched the sky. April Ericsson, Roger had learned, at twenty-five two years older than him, an artist, a Gemini, left-handed, giggly, a little bit weird and a little bit perfect. "I liked this."

"Me too," replied Roger, tilting his head back to her. Her arms were folded but one hand was lifted, the fingertips pressed to her collarbone. In the light, she looked young and worn but her eyes were alive. Roger wondered how he looked; probably pale and tired, maybe with giant purple bags under his eyes. Funny how he felt like crap but her admiring gaze made him feel like king of the world.

"I'd better get back," he felt himself say as he hoisted his guitar onto his back. He tried not to notice how disappointed she looked; _trust me, doll, I know the feeling_. "But it was nice meetin—"

April never let him finish his sentence. Abruptly she was on her tiptoes, arms curled around Roger's neck and mouth slammed to his. Roger went rigid with surprise and she just ground her lips harder against his, as though attempting to bruise him rather than kiss him. It certainly did not _feel _like a kiss. It felt more like they were standing with their faces shoved together. Of all the scenarios of their first kiss that Roger had envisioned during their long conversation, this was _not _one of the better ones.

Then April's arms carefully unwound from his neck and instead found purchase at his hips, gripping the fabric of his shirt tightly. She relaxed and her lips began to move gently against his, warm and inviting, and after a few moments Roger's hands reached up to cup her face as he responded eagerly. Then they were _really _kissing, right there in the middle of the street at the crack of dawn, ogled by complete strangers. A little bit weird. And a little bit perfect.

Roger pulled away from April's lips and nuzzled his way down to her neck, planting his mouth there as though this were not the first time, he had not only just met this girl. Between breaths and kisses, he managed to rasp out, "Yours or mine?"

So he went with her back to her place, where he would spend the better part of the following day, already aware that April would be a significant part of his life. More than aware; the fact is that he welcomed it completely…wherein the tragedy lies.

* * *

The beginning of the end occurred three months later. It was evening and the first evening where April had not contacted Roger at all. It sounds ridiculous but Roger had been genuinely worried about her—this was not like April at all. Normally, she would appear at his door or convince him to come to hers and they would spend some time together—sometimes, he would play some music for her, or she would show him some of her old pieces and then force him to hold still while she sketched what he looked like at whatever moment in time it was. They would always end up spending the night together; Roger could not remember the last time he had fallen asleep without April's head on his chest. They had a routine, one that April seemed to set and Roger plain enjoyed, and this was just unprecedented and abnormal.

He sat on the couch, guitar forgotten by his side, for what felt like the longest time, waiting for the sound of her light knock at the door or for the phone to begin ringing. He almost wished that one of his roommates would come and disturb him, take his mind off the stupid fact that his girlfriend had not called. But Collins had vanished (_again_) and Maureen was out with that kid Mark, who Roger had barely spoken to since meeting him the day he moved in. To be honest, the guy was a little…odd. He looked like he hardly ever went out in the sun, his head was an odd shape, he had a constant kicked-puppy look about him, he never put down his goddamn camera and he walked about his new home like a little bird hopped toward birdseed: always cautious, hardly daring to trust or believe it.

(In his defense, how was he to know of what Mark alone would come to get him through?)

When the clock finally struck ten, Roger lost it. He _had _to get out of the apartment. It did not matter that it was night, that he lived in a bad area of the City. He could hold his own and he needed to breathe.

In the years to come, Roger would look back on this night and ponder what would have happened if he had not gone on that fateful walk on that muggy June night—if he had not passed that alley and seen a flash of red-gold hair and that enchanting smile and the glint of steel. But those would be bad thoughts to have, especially when the knowledge that he could do nothing to change his fate sat so heavily at the forefront of his mind.

"April?" Roger called into the black of the alley. April's head snapped up, her hair flipping just like the night they had met. It made Roger think once again of the sea. Deep, all-consuming. Enough to drown in.

"What are you doing, Mona Lisa?" he asked quietly, venturing into the alley and hunkering down in front of the upturned crate April was sitting on. Her eyes were bright, _too _bright and her breathing was quick and laboured. But when she saw him, she smiled.

"Roger," she cooed. Roger's eyes left her face and flicked down to her arm. There was a length of rubber tubing tied securely around her bicep. Clutched in her left hand was a syringe. At her side was a lighter. Roger's heart plummeted and he fell back, scrambling away. The scene before him was obvious and yet difficult to comprehend; it was a puzzle that Roger did not want to finish because there would be no sense of victory at the end of this game. Just the prize of a drug-addicted girlfriend.

"April, _what are you doing_?"

"You said that already," April pointed out. Laughter whistled past her lips and then she lifted the needle, watching it glint in the moonlight. "Baby, this stuff is…"

"No," Roger groaned, leaning forward to drop his head into his hands, "No, no, April, not…baby, that's, is that…?

"It's fucking _magic_," April declared. Her grin grew but for the first time Roger did not think it beautiful. "It's like it…God, it takes everything away. No worries, no fear, just relief," she smiled wistfully and then a little remorsefully, "I wish you knew what it was like. Then you would understand."

Roger swallowed hard. April already knew about his experimentation with drugs. But this—heroin—was uncharted territory. It had always seemed a million times more dangerous than whatever his band mates had scrounged up for him because there were so many horror stories about needles and disease. But April was smiling hopefully at him, extending the needle towards him and already reaching to untie the tubing from her arm, wanting him to understand the same bliss she was feeling. And he loved April and she loved him, so surely she would never do anything to hurt him?

So, with a trembling hand, Roger took the syringe.

* * *

_July 1994_

Fuck it, he needed a hit. Where the fuck was April?

Roger leaned against the rough brick wall of the building, glancing over his shoulder to peer into the alley. He could just make out April's form, standing with the man in the tatty brown jacket. Roger sighed and chewed anxiously on a hangnail on his thumb. _Fuck it all to hell._

"Rog?" April called out sweetly and Roger looked back to the alley. April gestured for him to come to her, clearly at ease, but Roger approached carefully, watching the dealer with wary eyes. The dealer chuckled, drinking in Roger's form and clucking his tongue in amusement, "Newbie?"

Roger did not reply. April nudged him, smiling sweetly, "Don't be an ass. You got any money? I'm a bit short."

Scowling a little, Roger dug in the pockets of his jeans, then his leather jacket. He managed to produce a ten dollar note, which April snatched and waved excitedly in the dealer's face.

"Is _that _enough?" she asked hopefully. The dealer's eyes flickered between her and Roger, before he eventually nodded. April grinned and pocketed the baggie she was offered.

"Just watch it, Red," the dealer warned, "Next time, Lover-Boy might not be around."

Roger's brow furrowed and he slid a protective arm around April's waist. Sensing the tension in his body, April leant into him and began to lead him away, "Till next time."

The dealer's lips twitched up in a cold mockery of a smile and he waggled his fingers at them. "I'll be waiting," he crooned sardonically and then seemed to melt into the shadows. Roger felt a chill creep up his spine.

"What the hell was that?" he hissed into April's ear. April just smiled and shrugged.

"That was just the Man," she replied simply. Roger thought that maybe he should pursue the topic and ensure that April would be safe, but then she slipped a hand into her pocket and pulled out the baggie, whispering seductively, "Anyway, we have the stuff."

Roger promptly forgot to care about anything but the girl on his arm and the little bag in her coat. He had not expected how addictive smack would be, nor how quickly April would become so important to him that being without her was like being without a limb. Urgently they walked together back towards Roger's building, silent in anticipation.

However, just before they reached the door of the building, Roger stumbled. It was not his fault, nor was it the fault of the man he had tripped over; it was the darkness, which indicated both that it was late and the power in the building had gone off. Roger swore, April stopped and the man on the pavement groaned.

_Wait a minute. I recognize that—_

"…Collins?"

Collins peered up, squinting his eyes to see properly, before he smiled a little when he realized it was Roger, "Hey, man, you're home late."

"Yeah, I was just—Collins, what are you doing out here?"

Collins shrugged, his smile not quite reaching his eyes, "Nothing. _Nada_. Just sitting." Then he looked over at April; they had seen each other occasionally, enough to know who the other was, but were not well acquainted. "Hi, April."

"Hey, Collins," April grinned, and then tugged anxiously on Roger's sleeve, "Rog?"

"Hang on, babe," Roger said, glancing briefly back at her before turning back to Collins, "Collins, what's wrong?"

Collins opened his mouth—perhaps to reassure his roommate that he was fine even though a fine Collins would be smiling right up to his eyes and booming laughter and commanding the attention of the room—but then decided against it. He sighed and opened up his fist, revealing a scrunched up piece of paper. Carefully, he straightened it out, cringing at what was written on it, before holding it out to Roger. His hand was so unsteady that the whole paper was shaking and Roger felt fear pool in his gut like ice water.

In the dark, he could barely read what the sheet said. Only the black block letters at the very top of the page: **HIV Antibody Test**.

"I'm sick, Roger," Collins croaked, "Really sick."


	17. I Think I Missed

**Sorry this took so long. My motivation died :( School is a biiiitch…anyway, I re-watched **_**Chess In Concert **_**and now I'm motivated again :D Plus it helps that it's the weekend! Anyway, here's a heads-up: the following chapters won't be pretty. And I'm sorry if the Mark/Maureen relationship seems underdeveloped or not detailed enough; I'll try my best but the whole point is that their relationship is not a great one. Basically, the shit hits the fan in the next few chapters. Um, enjoy? And apologies for any OOC-ness :) Oh, and don't hate me.**

* * *

**I Think I Missed**

The months following Collins' diagnosis were, Maureen believed at the time, the most difficult of her life. For one, both Maureen and Mark lost their jobs; the little coffee shop finally buckled under the demand for the popular chain stores and closed down, while the electronic store Mark worked at was forced to make several cuts. On top of that, Roger became increasingly flighty. It seemed that he was always out, either partying or performing or with that April girl, who was becoming more and more of a fixture in their lives. On top of _that_, Collins got into trouble with the board at Columbia University for his somewhat unorthodox lectures.

Finally, the cherry on the cake, Collins was _dying_.

Maureen had never really considered death an option before. She was aware that, at some point in the future, she would die, and she knew that Roger's father had died so it was not an unfamiliar prospect. But to have someone she knew, _loved,_ die so quickly, so suddenly… it did not feel right. Collins was supposed to have years and years, to live a long full life causing trouble and cracking quips and laughing…

Of course, Collins was taking it all in his stride. After the initial shock—the days of silence, gloominess, fear—wore off, he was back to wreaking havoc, drinking far too much Stoli and irritating the _hell _out of the manager at the Life Café. The only differences were that he would let no-one near him if he so much as scratched himself; he jokingly banned any of his friends from having unprotected sex with him (something, again, which Maureen had never really considered…but having the option ripped from her was still depressing); and he had to begin taking medication. Even this he turned into a gag: on the nights when they all got relatively drunk, he would bet Maureen or Roger or Mark a dollar that they could not say "azidothymidine"five times fast. This was a clever money-making scheme until Mark looked it up and found out that it could also be abbreviated to AZT.

These, of course, were the days when AZT was foreign to Mark, when he was untouched by pain and anger and death. In comparison to the man Mark now is, this past version could almost be called innocent. His subsequent contamination (because she cannot think of any other term) was partly her fault, Maureen will suppose.

Because eight days after Collins was diagnosed as HIV-positive, when Roger was out getting drunk or high or killed for all Maureen cared because he should have been with _them_, she crawled into Mark's bed in the middle of the night crying. Because she railed and ranted about the injustice of it all as he had no choice but to be silent and hold her and learn how to be a rock. Because she told him that it sometimes felt like he was the only person who she could talk to in the world and she kissed him. Because he did not pull away. Because he loved her too much.

And she loved him too much to save him.

* * *

_September 1994_

"Collins, I think we need another roommate."

The room seemed to go silent. Not because this was an unreasonable or strange request, but because it was _Mark_, young, shrinking-violet Mark, who had requested it in a strong and confident tone. (And God help her if Maureen did not find it a little bit sexy.)

"A roommate?" Collins repeated, eyebrows leaping up. Mark nodded, beginning to look a little uncertain.

"Well, yeah. Mo and I aren't working right now, you're suspended and I don't know _what _the hell Roger's doing with his cash."

At this point, he wheeled around to stare at Roger, seated on the couch with April on his lap and a totally innocent expression on his face.

"Investment," Roger replied simply before burying it in April's shoulder as the pair giggled over some secret inside joke. Maureen and Collins shared a look that screamed '_Jesus Christ, what the hell?_'. Mark simply frowned.

"I just think it would be a smart move," Mark continued in a strained voice, looking back to Collins, "We still need to pay the rent and get food and your meds…"

"Mark, I told you," Collins said sternly, "I'm taking care of the AZT."

"You're not working, Collins!" Mark snapped, startling everyone, "How the hell are you gonna pay? Unless you plan on begging on the fucking _street_!"

Everyone stared at him, more than a little worried. Even Maureen, who had technically been his girlfriend for over a month, had never seen him like this before: flushed, fists clenched and teeth grinding. Maureen had never been a proper girlfriend before but she knew enough to be aware that this reaction meant he was genuinely upset—and that this reaction was something she wanted to never see again. After a moment, Mark exhaled and forced himself to relax.

"I—I'm sorry," he stammered, looking down and fiddling with his glasses, "I just…a roommate would just take the edge off, Collins. Please.

"If you think it's a good idea," Collins told him carefully, "You look into it."

"I have," Mark replied, surprising everyone yet again, "A friend of mine from school. He's working for some big company and he's making good money but he can't afford his own place yet."

"Great," Roger grumbled, "A yuppie."

"He's a friend," Mark reiterated in frustration, "And he can help out and is fine with roommates and can take the couch—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" interrupted Collins, raising his hands in a 'hold your horses' fashion, "I thought _you _were on the couch."

Mark's mouth abruptly slammed shut. Maureen straightened up a little and glanced nervously between him and Collins. Their relationship, though fairly serious, had not yet been revealed to Collins. Roger knew—partly because Maureen wanted him to know but also because of her lack of discretion and his habit of barging into rooms without warning—but with everything Collins had to deal with right now, neither Maureen or Mark were sure of how to explain this to him. After all, romance had become a much harder subject to broach with him now that he could no longer be spontaneous or carefree.

However, one factor that Maureen and Mark forgot to take into account was that Collins was clever. Brilliant, even. It took him about five seconds of glancing between Mark's pained expression and Maureen's stiff posture before something clicked into place. "Ohhhh …"

"Ding, ding, ding," Roger droned, "He gets it."

Despite himself, Collins shot Mark a wide grin, "This is where I high-five you, right?"

Maureen rolled her eyes. Mark reddened violently and stuttered, "Um, um, er, no. This is where you say I can tell Benny yes."

Collins sighed, "Fine. Tell _Benny _yes," then he smirked, "Just be sure to warn him that this place is less of a loft and more of a _looooove-_nest, okay?"

"Sure, Collins," Mark said wryly, "I'll get right on that."

* * *

_November 1994_

Benny Coffin was a bigger yuppie than Roger could have ever dreamed of. He was a tall, broad black man with a bald head and a certain smugness that cried '_I come from money_'. If this cockiness had not told them, his full name (Benjamin Douglas Coffin III, for Christ's sake) said a lot. His clothes—ranging from monochrome suits to expensive sweats—probably cost more than the entire loft and its other occupants. But, for some reason, he went out of his way to get along with his roommates. He definitely disagreed with their ideals—Maureen had lost count over how many times they had fought over their opinions of the corporate world—but he did not try to get in their way. Maureen supposed he was more of a help than a hindrance in the loft. She did not _like_ him; he was still a slimy, smarmy yuppie. But she did not mind him.

Besides, right now, he seemed to be her only friend in the world. And no, she was _not _being overdramatic.

"Mark, she has a point," Benny commented from his position on the couch, looking up from his copy of the Village Voice. Mark frowned at him before looking back to Maureen, who stood with a pout in front of the door.

"Mo, I've hardly ever gone anywhere without you since I moved in," Mark pointed out.

"Why would you want to? I'm your _girlfriend_!"

"I know…" Mark sighed and rubbed the back of his head, "It's just, you know I love you, Maureen, but I do need some time, you know…"

"What, to yourself?" Maureen barked, folding her arms, "You don't _like _spending time with me?"

"What? No. I mean, _no_! I love spending time with you, but …" Mark hesitated and then glanced at the camera he was turning over in his hands, "God, Maureen, I haven't filmed in forever and if I—"

"But you're not _going _to film," Maureen snarled, "You're going to that stupid Cat Scratch club with Roger and his friends!"

As if he knew he had been mentioned, Roger poked his head out of the bathroom. His eyes were heavily ringed and his hair, still spiky and beached, stuck up at all angles.

"April's not getting worked up," he reminded them. Maureen huffed angrily—so much for him being her closest friend!

"That's cos she's passed out or something!" she cried, gesturing to Roger's bedroom door behind which, indeed, April slept. Maureen watched Roger bite his lower lip briefly in concern before shaking his head and turning away from the door.

"She's fine. And we're going," Roger told her, stepping out of the bathroom, "You're the one who said we should get along more."

"I didn't mean like _this_," Maureen whined. Roger laughed—much to her annoyance—and patted her shoulder.

"Don't worry. We'll keep away from the girls," he promised, throwing her a wink, "Come on, it's Dean's bachelor party and Mark needs to be around _guys _for a while. Else he's gonna be even more of a wuss."

Mark opened his mouth to protest against this but Roger was already dragging him to the door. Maureen watched them leave with a furious glint in her eyes. Only after the door had slammed did she turn to Benny and proclaim, "He cares more about that fucking camera than me!"

Benny looked up, mildly surprised, "Did he take the camera with him?"

"God, what an asshole! What _assholes_!"

"What's he gonna do with it at a strip club? Film? I'm pretty sure that's illegal."

Maureen glowered at him, "Benny, are we even on the same _page_?"

"What's going on?"

Both Maureen and Benny's heads whipped around to see April, leaning against the frame of Roger's doorway and blinking blearily at the pair. Her red hair was disheveled and her eyes were red, just like Roger's. Any anger Maureen felt was shoved aside in favour of concern.

"Nothing, honey," she cooed, hurrying over to grab April as she swayed, "Roger and Marky just went out for a while."

April frowned in confusion, "Where's … Roger? He's not…"

Maureen scowled as she remember the earlier argument, "He and Mark went to the Cat Scratch club for a party."

There was a moment when April just stared at Maureen, as though she did not comprehend, before she suddenly grinned, "Good. Roger knows the Man'll be there…"

Maureen paused, puzzled, "The Man?"

April did not reply. Instead she shook her head and leaned on Maureen gratefully, "Tired. Want Roger."

Still bemused, Maureen slung the smaller girl's arm around her shoulders, "I'll get you back to bed, sweetie."

April allowed herself to be led back into the room and tucked into bed. She curled up into a ball and seemed to drift off straight away, her breath slow and even. Maureen remained for a couple of minutes to watch her sleep and ardently wished that there was still someone in the loft who would happily tuck her in at night.

As it was, he had already grown sick of her.

* * *

_March 1995_

Isn't it odd how the worst days of your lives always begin in the most normal way? Maureen had no way of knowing what was ahead of her; nobody did. All Maureen had to be aware that everything was about to go wrong was a niggling suspicion in the back of her mind and an unusually quiet April.

"Babe, you sure you're not hungry?" Roger asked for the zillionth time. He was holding out his bowl of Cap'n Crunch hopefully but April, huddled on the window seat, shook her head and returned to gazing out the window. Roger met Maureen's eyes worriedly and shook his head a little; _what's wrong with her?_

As it was, Maureen was not too distressed over April's condition (even though, in a few years, she will wish so badly that she had been; that she had noticed). On that day, Maureen had her own fears, her own preoccupying thoughts that would never become as public as April's. She toyed with her cereal for a few moments, stirring the now soggy flakes with her spoon, before pushed the bowl away so brutally that Collins only just saved it from flying off the edge of the counter.

"I'm not hungry," she declared irritably.

Benny nodded disinterestedly, "Thanks for the newsflash."

"Fuck you."

"Maureen," Collins said warningly. An angry retort was on the tip of Maureen's tongue—_fuck you too, __Dad_—before she realized what was doing. Not only was she neglecting and abusing her friends, she was giving them hints that something was wrong. And they could not know that before she was sure.

"Sorry," she muttered towards the countertop. She heard Roger sigh and could practically sense Collins' and Benny's eyes on her. Awkward silence passed uneventfully, before Maureen heard a rustle of clothing as someone moved. She looked up just in time to see April cross to Roger, face unusually blank.

"I'm gonna shower," she informed him. Roger just nodded, still visibly troubled, and rubbed his sleeved forearm anxiously.

"You want me to, uh…?" he trailed off and tilted his head meaningfully towards April. Maureen's brow furrowed in bewilderment but April clearly understood because she shook her head and murmured, "I'm fine, but you…"

"Not without you," Roger swore. Oblivious to his friends' perplexity, he removed his hand from his wrist and drew his shoulders back, as though bracing himself. April swallowed and abruptly looking down at the floor. There was something about her—the way she stood, the way she looked, the way her hands were shaking—that were so devastated and _defeated _that Maureen should have known that something was horribly wrong. After a minute of composing herself, April lifted her face and pressed her lips to Roger's quickly.

"I love you," she told him before dashing towards the bathroom, hand clamped over her mouth. Roger, Benny, Collins, Mark and Maureen stared at the closed door until Maureen could no longer take the tension and stood up.

"I'm going out," she announced, wheeling towards the door and grabbing her shoes and coat. Mark stood too, as though planning to follow her.

"Where?"

"The Life. The Cat Scratch. Just _out_. Why do you care?"

Mark stared at her, startled and hurt, and Maureen was once again forced to remember that he had only been in her life for one year. That she was young and he was even younger. That it was too Goddamn soon for either of them to be pinned down with such burdens.

"Mo, are…are you okay?"

"Just dandy. See ya later."

She slammed out of the loft and barged down the stairs, not even noticing the young Latina girl who smiled at her on the floor below hers. In her anxiety, she found herself walking faster and faster down the streets—too comfortable to even peek into the alleyways by now—until she was almost running by the time she reached her destination.

If Maureen had known what was awaiting her back at the loft, perhaps she would have walked a little slower. Perhaps she would have enjoyed the cold spring sunshine a little more; she would have relished what was left of her youth. Because, by the time she lay down to get what little sleep she could that night, she would practically be a different person. Images no young woman should ever have to see—her boyfriend pale-faced and shaken, her best friend on his knees _howling_, her roommates calling an ambulance, blood seeping onto the bathroom floor, damnation in the form of a little white note—would be permanently imprinted in Maureen's brain.

But the worst day of Maureen Johnson's life would not be complete without a little personal torture.

The store Maureen ducked into was small and a clinical white, filled almost wall-to-wall with grey shelves. The woman behind the counter did not seem to notice Maureen as she stalked up and down the aisles on her quest. As she rifled through the products, Maureen's mind floated back to matters which, in a few hours, would seem trivial. Could she handle this? What would Mark say? What would she do?

In her daze, she almost completely walked past what she had been searching for and had to double back. Just as she reached out, the saleswoman seemed to realize she was there and immediately smiled at her.

"Do you need any help, miss?"

Maureen swallowed heavily and thought briefly of April that morning. "No, I, uh…"

Weakly, she gestured to the rack in front of her. The woman's mouth formed an 'O' of understanding.

"I see. Well, you're welcome to use our restroom if necessary. Would you like a recommendation?"

"No thank!" Maureen squeaked, grabbing a random box and reaching into her back pocket for her purse, "That's, um, okay, but I think this'll do. How much? Oh, and can I use the bathroom please?"

The woman nodded and smiled sympathetically at Maureen as she rang up the purchase. Even that simple deed set Maureen's temper off and she had to restrain herself from snapping at the woman. Instead, she slapped a twenty-dollar bill (generously stolen from Benny's wallet) onto the counter and set off for the back room.

The instructions were relatively simple. It was the waiting that would ultimately been Maureen's undoing. The cubicle was too small to pace in and Maureen did not want to unlock the door just yet in case that preppy, pitying pharmacist was waiting like a hawk to judge her. _Bitch_.

Instead she slid down onto the floor and tapped a rhythm on her knees, trying to be patient—no, trying to pretend she was anyplace but where she was. After an obscenely long period of time, Maureen finally gave in and looked. The little sign in the window was a pink plus sign.

_Fuck it_. She was pregnant.


	18. Will I Lose My Dignity?

**Did you know that Magic Johnson has had HIV for about eighteen years? Whoa, what a trooper. Sorry, that was a random tidbit I learned while looking up when HIV causes AIDs. For some reason, I am quite adamant that in **_**RENT**_**, Roger is merely HIV-positive. Mimi too, except perhaps at the end. Collins has AIDS but is too awesome to die, while Angel was too awesome for this world. ANYWAY. Thanks so much for the reviews for last time. And I loved how surprised everyone was at the end! I promise, that is necessary to the falling-apart of Maureen and Mark's relationship (as sad as that makes me). Be warned—this chapter gets a little dark. If it gets too OOC or any of you have an issue or something you'd like developed further, let me know. In other words, please review! You guys have been amazing so far and I am very grateful. Thank you!**

* * *

**Will I Lose My Dignity?**

_April 1995_

The waiting room was cold. Cold white walls, cold gleaming floor, nurses with cold demeanors. Even Roger was cold. His skin prickled with frost; his teeth clenched in his effort to suppress his shivers; his heart was a block of ice. Only capable of breaking with the hardest of blows.

It was April. It was supposed to be getting warmer. Instead he was doused in this never-ending freeze. Fuckin' irony, right?

Sat to his left, Maureen leant into him, gripping his hand tightly. To his right, Collins was silent, stony-faced. They did not look at each other or say anything. There was nothing left to be said; and Roger did not think he could look at either of them even if he had the strength.

It had been two weeks since the cold descended. Two weeks since his last hit. Two weeks since his girlfriend—

"I wanna leave," he declared. There was a split second and then Collins looked over.

"It won't be much longer—"

"I want out. _Now._"

Maybe he was acting like a stubborn child but, in his defense, did he not have a right to? His life had been torn up and spat out and twisted out of his control and he had nothing left. Why could he not have _this_?"

"Roger," Collins stated firmly, "We need to know."

Roger slid further down in the plastic chair, squeezing his eyes shut. Maureen's death grip on his hand tightened impossibly and she exhaled shakily. For a moment, Roger almost wanted to scream at her: _why the hell are you so miserable? What gave you the fucking right?_

He knew it was not fair. But what about this whole situation was fair?

"Roger Davis? Would you follow me into Exam Room One, please?"

The doctor—he did not register any details apart from the white coat and clipboard—stood in front of him. He might have been smiling; he might have looked solemn. It did not matter. As Roger climbed unsteadily to his feet, Maureen stood with him. _This _Roger noticed. Her eyes were wide and pleading, her face was pale as snow. Inadvertently, her hold on his hand loosened just enough for Roger to wrench away and follow the doctor into the exam room without her. He was alone when he was told that the test results came back positive.

"The good news is," the doctor had told him, tapping his or her fingers on the surface of the desk in discomfort, "your T-cell count is still relatively high, meaning that you're still in good health. In order to keep the infection from developing, we'll need to prescribe…"

Roger tuned out for the rest of the doctor's monologue. He knew the drill; he had seen Collins go through it. AZT, daily, wrap up warm, stay safe, blah blah blah. No money. No spontaneity, no security. No life. He thanked the doctor, took his prescription and wordlessly handed it to Collins outside. He might have looked disappointed or upset; Maureen might have cried. It was all a blur. It had been for two weeks, even since the screaming and the razor and the _roger, baby, we've got aids_. Roger might have felt anger or horror or pain or depression. He definitely will in the fullness of time. But at this point, he only felt numb.

He lost Maureen and Collins on the walk home. It was easy enough; New York City was a big place and the sidewalks were jammed with people. He just played his cards right. He dawdled, waited until Maureen and Collins had wandered far enough ahead in their shell-shocked trances and then cut down an alley.

He only felt numb but there was one thing that made him feel something _more_.

* * *

"Did you take your AZT?"

Roger looked up, vaguely surprised. Mark's head was poking through into his room, where Roger was sitting cross-legged on his and Apr—…his bed. The younger man looked a little tentative and pointedly ignored the belt strapped tight around Roger's upper arm.

"What?" Roger asked roughly. Mark shrank back a little but repeated the question in a stronger voice.

"Your meds. Did you take them?"

Roger said nothing for a moment, thinking back over the blank haze of the last three days. He could not even remember being told his prescription had been filled out. So—better safe than sorry, right? _Ha!_—he shook his head. Mark did not react obviously; he simply stepped into the room and held out the orange bottle. As Roger snatched it away and unscrewed the cap, Mark finally took notice of the spoon, the lighter, the filled _needle _on Roger's pillow. His face went a little ashen and his arm fell slowly back to his side.

"Roger—"

"Get out."

Mark did not move for a few moments. Instead, he crouched down next to the mattress in order to meet Roger's eye.

"You're killing yourself," he told him matter-of-factly. His blue eyes were steely in their resolution, saying more than the man himself dared; _your fucked-up habit will kill you before the virus does_.

"Get out," Roger repeated, more resolved in his tone. After a second of staring, imploring Roger with his gaze, Mark rose slowly and left the room. At this point, he was not that familiar with Roger; he was not strong enough to do what was needed for the sake of others. This knowledge would come soon but for now, Mark had no way of finding the courage to stop him—to help him.

Grimacing, Roger swallowed the little pill and tried to pretend the bitter taste in his mouth was just one of its effects. He shot up and leaned against the wall gratefully and tried to think of anything but puddles of red-tinted water spreading across the bathroom floor.

* * *

Desperation is ugly no matter what the situation, who is involved and what comes out of it. Roger learned this the hard way.

The last week of his life had been a cloud of highs and beer and forgetting and it had worked pretty well up until this point. Even though his roommates must have been hopelessly worried, Roger was not because he thought he had it all figured out. The woman he loved was dead and Roger was heading that way as well. All he needed was the drug and the cloud and soon it would be nothing but sweet oblivion, him and April; no pain, no blood or screams or _roger, baby, we've got aids_, no bad words like 'suicide' or 'withdrawal' or 'help' (because how can you help the helpless?). All it would be would be him and her and music and smack and that would be all Roger needed.

But the heroin was the only thing keeping him functioning here. Without it, he was hyper-aware of the whispers of his roommates, the blandness of the world outside, the disease eating him from the inside out, and the memories of the trail of red dripping down the side of the bath as— _no._

Roger needed smack. He _needed _it. He was willing to do anything.

"That's not enough."

At some point, darkness had fallen. Roger stood in the mouth of the alleyway, shaking in his thin shirt. The notes in his palm crumpled as his fist clenched and the Man smirked.

"That's what I _always _pay," Roger ground out. He wanted to sound forceful or aggressive, but the sheer despair in his voice gave him away. The Man tutted mockingly.

"That's what you paid before. See, I went easy on you when Red was around, cos she was a sweet little thing, weren't she?" he commented, his grin widening as Roger's trembling increased, "And after she went away, I figured I could cut you a little slack. But, y'see, I'm fresh outta pity, Lover-Boy. I need what you owe me," then, he held up one hand; dangling from his fingers was that little Ziploc bag, the white powder within tantalizing and oh so far away, "And till you do, you're not getting _any _of this."

He was cold. It was the middle of April and Roger was _cold_. He wrapped his arms around himself and felt a nervous sweat break out on his forehead. He could not handle going cold turkey so quickly; he knew it and so did the Man.

"Come on, man, you gotta do something," Roger begged. He was illing already, _badly_. Without that little baggie, Roger was susceptible to anything; the pain, the fear, that all-encompassing chill

_and the sight of her, lifeless in the bathtub, yet not dead, for surely death is all black and white and grey, shades of nothingness, while she is scarlet from the roots of her hair to the blood dripping from her ravaged arm to the tiles below and he is screaming, screaming_

"Please, _please!_ I'll fuckin' do anything!"

Roger snapped; he was grieving and frightened and vulnerable. The Man could see that; in fact, he reveled in it, the control and power it brought him. These people, sheep who came to him in search of pleasure, relief, cheap thrills, would always come to rely on him and what he sold eventually. Before long, nothing would matter to them except him—it was the same in every case, from Lover-Boy to Red to Kitty-Cat to every other damn client he tended to—and then, they were his to do with as he pleased.

"There, there, cutie-pie," he crooned, wrapping a comforting arm around Roger's shoulders. The kid was shaking, his breath rasping through his nose and green eyes glassy and red. "I'm sure we can figure _something _out…"

The words had an almost instantaneous effect; Roger's heart stopped thundering and he relaxed a little, knowing that he would be getting what he so urgently required. The Man slipped the money out of Roger's hands and slid it into his pocket, a wicked smile stretching his mouth the whole time. But Roger did not allow unease to stir him; he did not speak as the Man led him into the shadows of the alley, away from the chance of prying eyes, or as he was unceremoniously shoved to his knees, or even as he opened his mouth and closed his eyes and forced himself to think of what he would receive as a reward after this suffering: oblivion. Sweet, sweet oblivion.

Only when he stumbled back into the loft a short time later, his reward tucked into his back pocket and the disapproving eyes of his roommates upon him, did Roger wonder if it was all worth it.

* * *

_May 1995_

The bag lay on the floor before him, almost waiting for him to pick it up and rip it open. But Roger resisted. It was past midnight; his roommates were all asleep. Now would be the obvious time to shoot up in peace and avoid his friends' judgment for another day.

_Who the hell are those assholes, anyway_, Roger thought furiously, _to fucking judge me?_

After all, could Mark judge him even as he pretended not to notice the needles and baggies and Roger's constant state of dull half-awareness? Could Maureen as she flitted in and out of the loft, thin-lipped and secretive? Could Collins as he covered up the gloom of their lives with jokes while hiding the official-looking envelopes bearing the logo of MIT? Could Benny as he ascended the corporate ladder and acted as if he was not fucking the boss's daughter? Could any of them, as they all pretended that they did not see what was happening to him?

But that was not fair, Roger knew. They wanted to help him; he could see it every time he so much as glanced their way. They knew what Roger had pretended not to realize the whole time: that he was sick, very sick, and was an addict, plain and simple and was refusing to deal with what had happened to April. What he had seen that day in the bathroom

_when she had taken her razor and slit her wrists, up and down the delicate pale undersides of her forearms, tearing the flesh where once had been skin and vein and track marks, as though she had not aimed to kill herself but rather slice those damning bruises off of her arms, cut out any evidence that she had brought it upon herself, he had brought it upon himself, they had both been falling though they believed they were flying and now she was gone and he was trapped in this empty half-life of self-loathing and horror and haunting images of the bath water tinted with her infected blood, of his friends panicking and calling and holding him for dear life as he screamed and screamed and screamed and all she had left him was_

'Roger, baby, we've got AIDS. Your April.'

Roger did not hesitate. He tore the note in half, then quarters, then continued until all that was left was a pile of small black and white squares. April was dead; she had slit her wrists in the bath tub and written one last message on the back of her blood test results; and it had taken some time but he knew that now. He knew he could not hide from it and all the heroin in the world would not fix this.

This left the little baggie on the floor.

Again, Roger turned his gaze back to it, sitting innocently next to what was once his girlfriend's suicide note. It would be so easy, so _good_. One last perfect oblivion before reality again demanded his attention; one last night to pretend that he was okay, that he would be okay. That he would live past thirty.

Roger wondered how many times in the last month he had thought or used the word 'pretend' as he picked the baggie up. He wondered when his whole life became one giant farce as he stood and flung the bag out of the window into the blackness of the street.

The next few months—hell, the next few _years_—were going to be unbelievably difficult; torture Roger did not even know was possible at some points. But at least it would all be real. He had lost so much already but maybe he could scrape through this nightmare with…God, _something_. Anything!

"Roger."

Roger wheeled away from the window, blinking as he made out a shape in the darkness, stood in the doorway of his room. The distinctly feminine shape told him that it was Maureen, clad in a t-shirt and shorts, and Roger relaxed his shoulders, moving to clamber back to the bed.

"I'm proud of you," Maureen murmured, stepping into the room towards him. Roger scoffed and turned his face away from her, facing the wall and the window, out of which he can see the lights of the City. April and the Man and smack and the disease briefly flashed across his mind and Roger wondered why Maureen thought this. If Mark or Collins or even Benny thought this. If his old lovers and friends and acquaintances would think this. If his family would—if his father would.

"How come?"

If Maureen was surprised by the question, she did not show it in any obvious way. The mattress sunk as she lowered herself onto it, only inches from Roger.

"Because you're strong," she replied. She did not just mean for surviving after April and Roger registered that. He wanted to smile at her but rather found that he did not have the energy—nor the inclination. Perhaps he had not yet given up everything he had come to depend on, but already he was drained by having to cope on his own. All that was left was the numbness.

"I fucking wish."


	19. Understand, I'm Scared

**This story now had nineteen chapters! Wow. But it's old for its age, it's just BORN to be bad…sorry. Thanks for reading last time, guys, and I promise Roger will try to stop acting like a douche ;) This chapter's awfully heavy on Roger/Maureen interactions … I feel like those have been lacking in the last few chapters. There might be a little romantic hint in there … aHEM so sorry if you don't like that; I think this story will remain predominantly friendship (very **_**close **_**friendship), no matter how badly I want to develop it. Sorry, I've become a total shipper. Out of curiosity, what do you guys want to see happen in this story? It'll stick to canon for a while, obviously, but what about when we venture into post-RENT territory? Just let me know if you have any suggestions/opinions/etc. Anyway, thanks for reading! And sorry that the ending is so dark but this is meant to be the final push for Maureen. Incidently, the ending is also really weak but that's because I was writing at two in the morning, so sorry about that as well. And also for any OOC-ness but this is meant to be an oh-so-important breakdown chapter. Oh dear. And apologies for the implausibility of this chapter! :D Okay, done apologizing now. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Understand, I'm Scared**

It was the end of April and Maureen was glad. It had been the longest four weeks of her life and she would be overjoyed to see the back of it. In fact, Maureen would be happy if that word was never mentioned in her loft again.

It was not that Maureen had disliked April when she was alive. She barely knew her, honestly. She knew that she was a little quirky, that she made her laugh during their few conversations. She knew that Roger was hopelessly in love with her. She knew—well, _thought_, really—that April had abused the absolute trust he placed in her to lure him into the world of addiction.

She knew that April was gone and dragging Roger down with her.

That day at the end of March, when Maureen had taken that fateful test only to come home and find April, dead, in the bathtub and the loft in chaos, had seen an unusual and rare collision of life and death. As she had held onto a hysterical Roger and watched as Benny dialed 911 and Mark panicked and Collins checked for any signs of life in the bathroom, all she had been able to think about was the irony that April died on the day Maureen learned that there was life inside of her. Irony, huh? Well, Maureen thought so.

Unfortunately, the whole pregnancy issue had had take a back seat while Maureen and her roommates coped with this twist. She was still the only person who knew about the … that she was pregnant. Not even Mark knew yet. She intended to keep it that way until a time when the information would not be damaging.

(Of course, it was always going to be damaging. They were young, still so innocent in the ways of the world at that point; they were penniless and unemployed; their friend needed them more than ever; oh, yeah, and their whole relationship was doomed. Having a baby with Mark would never have worked but Maureen decided to pretend that she did not know that. She pretended that love would be enough.)

* * *

In early May, Maureen broke the skylight.

Of course, the official story—the one that Mark and Benny believed and that Collins had heard but was understandably skeptical about—was that some of the thugs who liked to graffiti the walls of the building had snuck up to the roof, found a brick and thought it would be amusing to throw it through the glass. Maureen had even gone to pains to find a brick on the roof and plant it in the loft as 'evidence'. However, it was all one massive lie. The truth was that the skylight was not the only thing that shattered that day.

Maureen and Roger had too.

Collins and Benny had been as work, Maureen recalls; she thinks Mark had been out filmed, as he was oft to do in the aftermath of April's death. It was his one escape from the cold reality of the loft. Not even Maureen did the job anymore. But she was not bitter about it. Not at all.

The fact that she put her foot through the skylight _might _suggest otherwise. But it should not.

Maureen had been alone in the loft with a brooding Roger that day. He had been quiet for days now; they had barely spoken since the night she had seen him throw his stash out of the window. She was not sure if withdrawal had begun to really kick in yet but she did know that Roger had been restraining himself for … well, probably since April had killed herself. He was distant and silent and, until recently, had relied almost solely on the heroin to survive. His life was falling apart about him and he was witnessing it emotionlessly.

And Maureen was frustrated. Wouldn't anyone be? If it were her, she would not keep quiet. She would be kicking and yelling and fighting and _screaming_…

She remembers that she was watching Roger sit on the window seat. Then she was up and heading to the roof for some fresh air. Unfortunately, the air—thick and strong with the stench of cars and smoke and pollution—had had the reverse effect. Months earlier, Maureen would have been fine with it. _Used _to it, even. But the life inside of her was not; her stomach churned and rolled and she had to stagger to the edge and vomit on the wall. The skylight was just behind her; the door back down into the building was on the other end of the roof. Maureen had emptied her stomach of what little was in it: some cereal, a glass of water, what else? Nothing. They had nothing else. And even if they could afford it, she could not go shopping, because she could not leave Roger alone in case _he _offed himself too. The only other source of sustenance they had was coffee and she could not have any coffee because she was fucking _pregnant_—

Maureen snapped. And Maureen Johnson had never been one to contain such powerful feelings. She screamed a little, scattering several frightened pigeons; she stomped around the roof a little, taking pleasure in the mental image of the might of her anger rumbling throughout the world and turning every eye to _her _for once. Then she thundered towards the skylight, intent on stamping on it just once, just to take out her fury on something quickly … unfortunately, she overestimated the strength of the glass. It had smashed under her foot, glass raining into the loft (_her _loft), and Maureen shrieked as she almost lost her balance. Her jean leg snagged on a jagged edge and the fabric ripped, taking a layer of skin with it.

_Fuck it fuck it fuck it_ … Maureen berated herself as she turned and bolted for the door. She practically leapt down the flights of stairs and flung herself into the loft.

"Roger, ohmigod, I am so sorry!" she cried. Roger, still huddled on the window seat, stared at her like she was mad. He was barefoot, Maureen noted, swamped in a pair of old jeans and that green sweatshirt she had given him for Christmas years ago. She had not noticed how skinny he had become.

"What ha—?" Roger began to ask but Maureen cut him off.

"It was an acci—oh, fuck, wait a minute, we need to clean this up. I'll—I'll get a dustpan and—wait, I'll get something to put the glass in and then we can throw _that _out, it'll keep it safe—hang on—!"

In her haste, Maureen did not realize that Roger had actually spoken to her and instead dove into her room. Her throat burned from the effort of not crying at the sheer _unfairness _of it all but she repressed it. She rooted around in her chest of drawers, trying to find something big and thick enough that they could put the glass in and not have it break through and cut anyone. Ever since Collins and Roger had been diagnosed, she had been more wary about that sort of thing; no extra risks could be taken about this.

Eventually, Maureen gave up and grabbed just about every sock she owned. Arms full, she darted back out into the main room where—

—Roger crouched on the floor, staring intently at something in his hand. When Maureen burst back into the room, he shot into a standing position, opening his hand and dropping whatever it was. There was a distinct _clink _of glass on glass.

Maureen froze. Hesitated, before venturing, "Uh, Roger…?"

"I was just…" Roger mumbled, fidgeting awkwardly, eyes flitting anywhere but towards Maureen's face. Even from ten feet away, Maureen could see a bright rivulet of blood running down the palm of Roger's hand. Her arms fall to her side and the socks tumble to the ground.

"You cut yourself," she stated blankly. Roger lifted his wrist and blinked at it slowly, as though he had not noticed.

"Accident," he explained gruffly before he padded back toward the window, as though that was the end of the conversation. However, with Maureen, sleeping dogs could never just lie.

"Let me see," she ordered. Before he could reply, she stormed over to his side, dropping next to him and seizing his hand. The cut was on the underside of his arm, on that line where palm met wrist; it was small, only just deep enough to draw blood. But it was not what it was but what it signified that mattered to Maureen.

Roger allowed her to grasp and examine him, his eyes fixated on the scratch as well. Maureen's fingers tightened just a little and she warily looked up at him, almost afraid to ask.

"Roger?"

"It was an _acci_—" Roger began to snap, but then broke off, turning to glare out the window again. Apparently he no longer deigned to talk to her, one of his only goddamn friends in the world right now, anymore. Huffing in frustration, Maureen stood up and looked back at the scattering of glass on the floor. Her own leg stung a little but she ignored it as she went to find a dustpan.

After the glass was taken care of, Maureen craned her neck and frowned at the hole in the skylight, as though it would fix itself just because of the intensity of her gaze. Who knew what it would let in: wildlife, rain and snow, more of that disgusting air? Maureen closed her eyes and tried not to think about her outburst on the roof—she was by no means weak but she was no superhero either.

"Maureen," Roger's voice said quietly to her left. Maureen slid one eye, then the other, open to stare at him. He stood somewhat sheepishly before her, clutching a thin brown blanket in his hands.

"We could pin this over the skylight," he proposed, holding it out like a peace offering, "Keep the worst of it out."

Maureen smirked humorlessly. "Won't keep the cold out."

"What does?" Roger pointed out dryly. There was still a fine line of red on his hand, but Maureen imagined that the bleeding had probably stopped already. She remembered coming home that day and seeing April, spread-eagled in the bathtub, remembered how white she had been, how much blood had stained the water and tub and floor. The bleeding had probably stopped by then as well.

She wondered what Roger would have looked like.

"Maureen?"

"Hmm?"

"You're crying."

"I am? Oh, crap," Maureen flushed red and shrugged feebly, "I guess I just…"

She trailed off and averted her eyes. Roger did nothing for a minute, just toyed with the blanket, before abruptly dropping it and stepping over it toward her. His hand lifted almost automatically and—hesitantly—he brushed the track of tears away. For a moment, Maureen thought of the man Roger had once been—before the disease, before the drugs, before April—and her heart swelled when she saw a glimpse of him in this man's eyes. But then Roger caught himself and snatched his hand away like she had burned him and Maureen remembered that that man was long gone.

"Sorry," he murmured lamely, eyes lowering to the floor. His shoulders were trembling. This may have been withdrawal starting to truly kick in but Maureen thought she knew better. Her arms raised, intent on wrapping around him.

"Roger, it's okay—"

The world suddenly seemed to move in slow-motion—it was only a few seconds, but Maureen felt like it was hours or days. She seemed to notice every little detail: the way Roger's eyes widened just a fraction; the way his fists clenched; and, finally, the way he ducked out of her reach, stumbled over that stupid blanket and collapsed back onto the couch.

"Sorry—_sorry_—God, fuck it," he moaned and dropped his head forward into his hands, breathing heavily. There was now no denying the way he was shaking. Maureen swallowed thickly and gingerly lowered herself onto the couch next to him, resting a hand lightly on his back. She did not say anything, aware that she did not have to; this was the first time since what had happened that Roger had laid himself bare for anyone to see; this was him breaking down.

"I'm a fucking mess," Roger whispered into his hands, "A fucking pathetic, desperate _mess_…"

Maureen exhaled shakily, "I-it's okay…"

"No, it's not!" Roger snarled, lifting his head to scowl at her. His eyes were wet but whether it was because of tears or because of the sweat rapidly breaking out on his forehead, Maureen was not sure. Either way, the sight made Maureen's heart pound nervously. She was suddenly not so sure that she was the one to handle this. Roger stared at her for a moment, before all the anger drained out of him abruptly and he looked forward, eyes unfocused.

"I was stupid and now I'm going to die," he said tonelessly. He rubbed his forearms absently and closed his eyes. "And all I can think about is how bad I need a fucking _hit_."

That was all Maureen could take. She moved to kneel in front of him and grabbed his head, forcing him to look at her.

"_Stop _that," she hissed, "Fucking _stop _it."

Roger did not say anything for one long moment. Maureen dropped her hands from his face to his wrists and clasped tightly, trying to convey what she could not in words. _I can help. Please try. Stay strong. I love you._

"I sucked my dealer's dick for smack," Roger blurted. Maureen had to admit, she did not expect that. She released his hands in surprise and fell back into a sitting position, mostly because she suddenly could not feel her legs. She was by no means an angel but even her experience could not stop her jaw from dropping and her face from turning red.

"You _wha_?"

Roger smirked cynically, "It's okay. Be disgusted. You should be."

Maureen tried to reply but her mind had just gone blank. She opened and closed her mouth a few times as she attempted to wrap her mind around this new…er, information. An image rose unbidden in her mind: Roger, shaking and lost and broke, pleading in a dark alleyway with a cartoonish evil figure; the figure smiling gruesomely and beckoning him further into the darkness, seizing him roughly and pushing him down, making him…making him…

Maureen's stomach clenched again and she had to shut her eyes and force the nausea away. Roger began to speak again, his voice coarser and fiercer than it had been in a long time.

"I needed it. I was willing to do _anything_. Jesus, don't you see? I can't do fucking anything without goddamn smack. I've got nothing now, not April or music or even my goddamn _health_! _I'm _nothing! All I have is smack, cos I thought…Christ, I _hoped_ I might—"

"Die quicker?" Maureen finished his sentence quietly. There was a pause before Roger nodded once and averted his gaze, an unfamiliar expression darkening his face. Shame. Disgust. Self-loathing.

"Can't you just let me die, Maureen?"

"Why should I?"

Roger cast her a scowl. She had found her voice now, but was apparently not saying the right words. "Why should I live? Cos this isn't living, Mo. This is a … fucked-up half-life."

Maureen pressed her lips together, her brain working furiously to provide the right response. "It'll get better."

"How?"

"We can…you can get clean. We can find a place, a clinic or something—"

"A rehab?" Roger scoffed, "Can't afford that."

"Well, then, you get clean _here_," Maureen snapped, "Once you get off the heroin, things will be better, I swear. You don't need it to survive and you know that, Rog. And you don't need _her_ either."

Roger's eyes narrowed a little. Maureen was venturing into dangerous territory and she knew it; but it had to be said. She knew that as well.

"Don't talk about her."

"I'll fucking do what I want!" Maureen growled, shooting up to her feet. She was taller than him, for once, and actually felt it; felt like she was a hundred feet tall. "And what I want is for you to fucking get over yourself and admit that _you want out_!"

"That's what I've been saying!" Roger shouted in retaliation, standing up himself. But Maureen still had that feeling of being much taller. Probably because she was stronger right now.

"You don't want to die!" she insisted, "You just don't want to live like this!"

Roger suddenly shut up and Maureen knew she had hit the nail on the head. Triumph blossomed inside her chest and, for the first time in a while, she wanted to laugh.

"We can get you clean," she repeated, "It'll take time, it'll be hard, I know that but…we can do it. You just got to—"

Roger looked away, addressing the back of the couch instead, "Don't waste your time on me, Maureen."

"It's not a waste," Maureen replied. She slipped a hand onto his cheek, turned him back to her. His eyes were glazed, not in a way that suggested that he was about to cry, but more like his resolve was beginning to crumble. Unthinkingly, Maureen kissed him; just quickly, on the lips, trying to remind him what a gentle touch was and marveling at how swiftly he had forgotten about simple virtues like love or kindness. His eyes fluttered shut and he breathed out slowly, his shoulders slumping as though relieved of a heavy weight.

"Okay," he said. His voice was still quiet, still pained and served only to remind Maureen that this man had suffered so much and was about to suffer even more. "I'll…okay."

"Okay," Maureen mimicked and smiled, especially when she noticed the corners of Roger's mouth twitch. He did not smile, however. Maureen did not mind. She had won enough.

And she would see him smile again.

"Are _you _okay?" she asked gently. His eyes opened again, this time meeting hers unfalteringly.

"I'm scared," Roger confessed in a childlike voice. It was completely inappropriate and unfair but Maureen could not help but chuckle a little.

"Join the club, man," she chirped. Roger cocked his head and frowned in confusion. Maureen could still see every emotion reflected in his eyes—the fear and grief and steely determination—and felt her whole heart ache a little. She wondered what it had cost him to reveal the innermost parts of his soul to her.

"I'm pregnant, Roger," she blurted out and clapped a hand over her mouth in shock. _Oh shit_.

Roger blinked, "You're … what?"

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit_. "Just … never mind. Don't tell Mark. You weren't supposed to … I was _gonna _tell you."

He just stared at her and Maureen felt her face rapidly heat up. What a _stupid _move! What a _stupid _way to ruin what had been a practically perfect moment! Reality had suddenly crashed upon them again; they were back in the filthy, vacant loft, with the pool of glass from the now-broken skylight behind them. There was a virus in Roger's veins and a baby in Maureen's stomach and everything suddenly demanded their attention all over again.

Maureen felt sick again.

Then, unexpectedly, Roger's eyes softened; his lips pulled upwards again. Maureen's heart warmed as she realized that maybe this pregnancy was not so bad.

Before Roger could speak, the door was dragged open and they sprung apart as Benny strode into the loft, a willowy woman with white-blonde hair and pale blue eyes on his arm. When he noticed Roger and Maureen, Benny froze.

"Oh crap…" he muttered, before forcing a smile, "You guys are…here. What a nice surprise!"

Roger's eyes narrowed. Maureen just rolled hers. The girl holding Benny's hand was wearing a nice designer dress and heels. She coughed politely and nudged at Benny's side.

"Oh, um, yes," Benny mumbled, releasing the woman's hand and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, "Roger, Maureen, this is Allison, my … associate," Allison nudged him again, harder this time, and it was Benny's turn to cough, "And girlfriend. Sorry, baby. Anyway, we were just—oh my God, what happened to the skylight?"

* * *

Later that night, after Maureen had invented the elaborate and dramatic story of how a group of brutes smashed their precious skylight, Collins came home with a handful of shopping bags and somewhat bad news.

"I got the job at MIT."

"…oh," was all Maureen could say. No one else was in the room—Benny was out with Allison and Mark had taken some water into Roger's room ages ago and still had not returned. Maureen sunk onto the table and flopped back. Collins shifted guiltily.

"I know the timing's bad," he told her, loading his bags onto the table, "But it's better money."

"Collins, _money _doesn't matter—!"

"And it's a better job for me," he insisted, "The extra cash is just a plus. I can send enough back for rent and food and Rog's AZT and I get to teach a whole new bunch of kids. We can still talk _all _the time," then, Collins bumped his arm against hers jokingly, "and I swear I'll come back when you finally do that show you've been talking about for years!"

Maureen rolled her eyes but could not help but smile. "Promise?"

"Yup. Promise," Collins vowed before pointing to his shopping bags, "Look, I even blew my last Columbia paycheck making it up to you! I got good, I got Stoli, I got clothes—"

"_Clothes_?"

"Uh-huh. Check out what I got Roger," Collins grinned as he rifled about in one bag before producing—

—a pair of plaid trousers so atrocious that Maureen forgot that she was upset with him and almost fell off the table laughing. Collins looked down at them and laughed himself.

"Maybe these'll cheer him up. I haven't heard that boy laugh in weeks."

They did not, of course. Roger merely looked at them for a few moments, before taking them and wandering to the bathroom to change. He must have liked them, however, because he would spend most of the next few months wearing them. At the time, Mark just rolled his eyes.

"What took so long in there?" Maureen asked, wrapping her arms around his waist. Mark smiled at her.

"He was talking about … what he wants to happen next," Mark replied, "He told me he wants to get clean and get better. Maybe I can even get him to take his AZT regularly!" Mark laughed a little, a sound which Maureen loved, before adding, "I think he just wanted me to know. And I swear, I'm gonna do what I can for him."

"You guys are that close?" Maureen asked in surprise. Mark sighed ruefully and shrugged.

"Sorta. I mean, not that close but … I dunno, I want what's best for him. I've been kind of a jerk, ever since April died, and I guess I want to make it up to him. And to you. Sorry I've been leaving you alone so much. I guess I just didn't know how to handle all this," his grip on her tightened and he leant in to kiss her once, "But I promise, things'll get better now."

Maureen leant her head against his shoulder and smiled to herself. She made a mental note to tell him about the baby later that night.

* * *

Three days later, Maureen woke up in the middle of the night feeling ill. Her knees were pulled up to her chest and she was curled in a ball; her forehead felt wet and misty. Maureen groaned; it was three o'clock in the morning and morning sickness was hitting her. Not fucking fair.

"Mark…?" she whined, reaching out towards him. Her hand encountered only cold sheets; he was not there. Maureen pushed herself up; the bedroom door was open and the light in the main room was on. Faintly, she heard someone moan lowly.

"Mark?" called Maureen, concerned. A second later, Mark appeared in the doorway, blinking in the darkness. Maureen sat up fully and pulled the covers right around her. Inexplicably, she felt cold.

"Sorry, Mo," Mark said, sounding genuinely apologetic, "It's…Roger. He's shivering really badly."

"Let Collins see him. I feel sick," Maureen moaned. Mark sighed and walked further into the room.

"What's wrong?" he asked. She still had not told him about the baby; between preparing for Collins' departure and watching withdrawal finally strike Roger hard, Maureen had been stressed enough as it was. Mark reached for the lamp on the table beside the bed and the room flooded with light. Mark peered at her.

"You're really pale. Is it the flu?" he commented, beginning to look worried. Maureen shook her head furiously. Suddenly, her stomach cramped excruciatingly and she doubled over, groaning. Mark jerked towards her, alarmed.

"_Fuck_, it hurts!" Maureen wailed, gritting her teeth. She was so absorbed in the sensation of pain that she did not notice panic creeping into the edges of her mind until she realized that her heart was hammering and her breathing was shallow. Her stomach twisted again, screaming in agony.

"Something's wrong," she whispered in horror, "Something's really wrong."

"Maureen, it's okay," Mark soothed, resting his hand on her shoulder, "Just relax."

He did not understand. Of _course _he did not. Why, why, why had she not told him?

Gently, Mark eased the quilt away from Maureen, intent on lying her back down and calming her down. The quilt peeled back, revealing stained pajamas and sticky thighs and scarlet sheets. He froze and Maureen clenched her eyes shut, wishing that this was not happening, that this was all some terrible nightmare. Another hot stab of pain, only this was disbelief and fear.

"There's…oh, God, there's blood, Maureen. You're—oh shit. Collins! _Collins_!"


	20. Heat of the Future's Glow

**Eeeep, I suck. I've been meaning to write this all week but I never got around to it Dx Sorry, guys! And I'm sorry if this chapter feels rushed but we're literally THIS CLOSE to canon and I'm sort of ready to get there. And post-canon because I have some ideas about that too ;) I know I usually do a chapter with Maureen's perspective and then one with Roger's, etc, etc but this time, it's going to be a mix; a little of Maureen, a little of Roger, some Mark and maybe Collins and Benny thrown in for good measure. It's probably angst-ridden too. **_**C'est la vie**_**. Enjoy! And I'm sorry if Roger is a douche again ;) Or if any of it is wildly OOC…I just can't seem to get Mark's voice right!**

**WARNING—Very long chapter ahead that includes two character entrances and a little sensitive subject matter. I'm trying to be as careful as possible with it. Also, I went with movie!Roger's hair. I don't care, I **_**like **_**the long hair :)**

* * *

**Heat of the Future's Glow**

Dad's guitar was dusty. It had been laying on the window seat, unused, for…God, how long had it been? Roger was no longer sure. He did not seem to notice little things like the time anymore. Time was irrelevant. It could be light one moment, then he would blink and it would be pitch-black. It was summer, but temperature never mattered either. One moment, Roger would be hot, far too hot; the next, he might be cold. Regardless, he was always shivering.

All he could bring himself to focus on was the pain. The shakes never seemed to stop; his limbs and muscles ached even though he rarely moved from the ball he was curled up in; he slept fitfully, always awakening to a sweat-sodden and a cramping stomach. He was tired and disgusting and miserable and he could no longer imagine a life without this agony.

Roger turned away from the guitar. He could no longer look at it.

* * *

_May 1995_

Collins was not sure who to feel sorrier for.

Was it the scared, dying young man groaning and shaking in his room? Or the pale, white-faced boy sitting on the table, staring into space?

Pfft. This loft was getting depressing.

"Hey, Mark," Collins smiled awkwardly, nursing his coffee cup and standing in front of Mark. Mark's eyes refocused on him and he blinked, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

"Hey, Collins," he replied quietly. Collins' heart constricted in sympathy for his friend.

What kind of _fucked-up _world was he living in if a few good kids could not turn a corner without having more anguish thrown at them?

"You gonna visit Maureen later today?" he asked delicately. Mark flinched and Collins backtracked immediately. "Sorry, man, I didn't mean—"

"S'okay," Mark said flatly. A moment's silence passed. Collins shifted uncomfortably and averted his eyes, wondering when the residents of this loft would get a little good luck.

"I didn't even know," Mark mumbled, "I didn't know she was…" He trailed off and clamped his eyes shut. Collins could have cried at the look on the younger man's face; of course, some day he would relish it as it would be the last genuine emotion he would see on Mark Cohen's face for a long time.

"She's gonna be okay, Mark," Collins assured him, and patted his shoulder. He knew this; Collins did not have much faith in the government in general, but the hospitals and medicine did their best. Collins had felt pretty well treated when he was diagnosed with HIV and he had no doubt Maureen was being well taken care of.

It had been forty-eight hours since Collins had been roused from sleep by Mark's shouts and stumbled onto a hysterical Maureen lying on blood-soaked sheets. It had not taken long for Collins, being a genius, to deduce the situation: Maureen was pregnant and obviously losing the baby. Mark had been confused and terrified, Benny was with his associate/girlfriend/whatever-the-fuck, and Roger could barely move, let alone be any help. So it was Collins who had called the ambulance, loaded Mark into the back with Maureen and then stayed up all night taking care of Roger and hand-washing the red-stained sheets (no flow for a Laundromat, after all, and the rusty old machines in the basement of the building had been broken for as long as Collins had lived there). Collins had had to postpone his journey to Massachusettsbuthe simply_ had _to be there for his pseudo-family and MIT had been very understanding. Maureen was now still in hospital following a minor procedure to ensure the process of the miscarriage was completed—Mark had come home and emotionlessly told Collins she had needed a _dilation and evacuation _and had not left the loft since.

"You should go," Collins told him, trying to look a little encouraging, "She'll be happy to see you."

For a few moments, Mark just looked at him. Then, he said, "She told me to leave her alone."

Collins was finally silent. What the hell could you say to _that_?

Mark scooped up his camera, "I'm going out to film for a while."

If Collins had stopped him, forced him to open up to him, perhaps that stupid camera would have never become the shield Mark would come to hide behind. Perhaps everything would have turned out differently. Instead, he watched as Mark pulled the door closed behind them and he sighed.

* * *

Faces came and went; mostly Mark, sometimes Collins, once or twice Benny bearing glasses of water that went ignored. Only one face hardly ever appeared.

It sometimes seemed as though memory was slipping away from him; all he could remember with clarity was the scarlet of April's blood, the shine of a needle as it slid into a bulging vein, the relief of heroin pumping through his body in tandem with his blood. The thirst for a hit was almost more than he could bear.

There are dents from fists on the wall that Roger cannot remember punching.

* * *

_July 1995_

"You're late," Mark commented as the woman strode into the loft. Her mouth stretched into a grin that did not quite reach her brown eyes. Her lipstick was smeared, almost as though by another pair of lips.

"Sorry, Pookie!"

Mark frowned, "Pookie?"

The stranger shrugged, "What? My parents used to call each other Pookie," she smiled again, this time with a knowledge that would possibly always remain secret to Mark, "I think it's cute."

"Pookie," Mark repeated in disbelief. The woman nodded and then tossed her jacket onto the table. Her dress was dangerously low cut. There was a bruise on her neck.

"Where were you?" Mark wondered aloud. The woman blinked at him, teetering on the verge of telling him the truth and shattering the little illusion they both were pretending they still were under. For a moment, Mark's heart rose hopefully.

"Out clubbing with a few friends."

No such luck.

"Roger okay?" she asked. For the first time since she got home, her voice is filled with something genuine: concern. It was not surprising; nowadays, Roger was the only thing he and this stranger had in common. Their protectiveness over their vulnerable mutual friend dwarfed any of their own issues.

"As good as can be," Mark offered. The woman's face fell.

"So still pretty bad," she translated. Mark nodded, a little disappointed that he could not give her more. The physical symptoms of detoxification had more or less worn off; he no longer suffered the shivering and cramps and Roger was sleeping a little better. However, physical health did not equal to emotional health. Of all people, this woman in front of him had taught—was _still _teaching—him that. The psychological hold had still not been broken. Roger would often be found pacing or pulling at his face or angrily punching the wall until his knuckles bled in an effort to fight the desperation he felt for smack. He never threatened either of them though; there were concerns, especially now that Collins had left and Benny was hardly ever there, but Roger did not pose a danger. He did to the walls or the furniture, maybe, but not to his friends.

He never spoke though. He could not look out of the window or even at his guitar anymore either. Ironic, really; Roger was casing himself inside, this woman was always on the outside and Mark was sort of nowhere anymore.

"Damn," the woman muttered and Mark looked at her. For a moment, he imagined that he saw Maureen in her, but that was gone as quickly as it came. She was not the woman he had fallen in love with anymore.

Mark wondered if she still thought about him; if she ever thought about the child that never quite was.

"I'm going to bed," she chirped, abruptly cheerful again, "G'night, Pookie!"

She flounced into the bedroom without so much as a glance and Mark pretended that the whiff of perfume he caught was perfume that she owned. He pulled his legs up onto the couch and fiddled with his camera, thinking of nothing but the wiring and circuitry and possibilities of documentaries. He did not dare to muse on the facts that he was dirt-poor and his friend was hurting and his girlfriend was a whore and he had only learned of his baby when he was losing it.

Mark leant his head back and disconnected from the world.

* * *

It was the middle of the night. Mark had finally given up and gone to bed but Maureen had been unable to sleep. Instead, she was here: leaning against the doorframe, watching Roger sleep.

There was something innocent about him at this time. Awake, he was tortured and angry and depressed. Here, he looked so much younger. It helped that he had stopped using nail varnish and eye-liner and hair dye—all of those signs that he felt made him part of a rock band. There had been no word from Finn or Dean or even Henry since April had died, so it was safe to assume that the Well Hungarians had officially broken up. Now, Roger looked more like the boy Maureen had first met. The dye had grown out and dark blonde hair was beginning to curl around his ears. Maureen fought a smile as she looked down at him.

_Still wearing that sweater I got him_, she thought with a chuckle, _and those God-awful pants._

There was something cleansing about this little ritual Maureen had of watching Roger sleep. It might be a little strange and Maureen would never hear the end of it if anyone found it but tonight she needed it. She could still hear the thumping of the club's music in her ears and feel the scratch of the man's beard as he kissed her neck. Looking at her best friend let Maureen pretend that she was not cheating on Mark; that she was not becoming her mother; that she was not letting down her friends and the life that could have been by abandoning them and what they once had.

Tears burned the back of Maureen's eyes and she turned away, squeezing them shut. _No_. She could not think like that. Did she not have a right to a little enjoyment after the year she had had? Did she not deserve to be with someone who cared, if only for a few minutes? Was she not allowed to feel appreciated, loved, _worthy_? Roger was trying to scrape what was left of his life together, Mark was balancing his determination to help him with his passion and had no time for the woman he loved, Collins was in a different state, and Maureen _missed _them. So she filled the hole in little ways and tried to find fulfillment with other people. But, so far, no-one could emulate Collins' good spirit or Mark's loving gestures or Roger's protectiveness and determination.

Watching Roger was beginning to ache a little. Maureen backed into the main room and resolved not to do it again.

* * *

_August 1995_

"I'm moving out," Benny declared. The loft was silent. Roger was gazing at the ceiling, not bothering to react; Maureen, hung-over, had her head in his hands and just groaned in response; only Mark attempted to look vaguely surprised.

"You are? Wha—well, where are you going?"

Benny shrugged, "Allison's condo. We thought it would be better for me to live with her, especially given that her father is an important man and he just gave me a higher position in the company."

Roger scoffed. Maureen, Mark and Benny all stared at him, stunned. It was the first time he had made any real try to communicate in months. When he did nothing else, attention quickly returned to Benny.

"You're just leaving? Like that?" Maureen asked. Benny looked startled and a little hurt by the venom in her tone.

"Is that that huge a surprise?" he retaliated. Maureen slammed her mug onto the table, spilling coffee over the surface.

"Of _course _not! You're barely living here as it is!" she groused, "No, it's not like you were here when we needed you so no, it's no big surprise!"

Benny scowled and moved forward as if to confront her, "Look, Maureen—"

"Guys, _guys_!" Mark interjected, waving his arms to draw their attention, "Can we not fight please?"

Maureen sulkily perched on the armrest, glaring at Benny. Mark rolled his eyes a little at the sheer _drama _she always dragged into a situation and looked back to Benny.

"Congratulations. When are you leaving?" he asked, hoping that he sounded earnest, not anxious to be rid of him. Benny frowned at him; apparently, Mark's hopes culminated in nothing. As per usual.

"Actually, this afternoon," Benny replied suddenly and then glowered at Maureen, making his feelings obvious: he could leave whenever he wanted but had no intention of being around her any longer than necessary. Rage boiled within Mark's chest—Maureen did have a right to feel upset by Benny's lack of support, he supposed—but kept his mouth shut and instead cried, "Wow, that soon? Well, do…do you need help with bags…?"

"I should be fine," Benny answered curtly, before storming to the bedroom, "I just need to pack."

Mark and Maureen awkwardly shared glances once Benny was out of sight. Roger scoffed again.

"What are the odds Daddy dearest promoted him to make him move in with Muffy?" he commented in a rough voice, still staring at the ceiling. By now, the brown rug covering the skylight had been replaced by a white tarpaulin. Maureen blinked at him.

"Muffy?" she repeated. Roger just shrugged, silent once again. A pause, and then Maureen chuckled.

"Poor old Muffy," she grinned. Mark rolled his eyes again but could not find it in himself to chastise them. After all, when was the last time things had felt this…_normal_?

Then he watched as Roger's eyes clouded over with something unidentifiable and the other man stood and strode out of the room. Then he noticed the blue ink on Maureen's hand as she lifted it and pinched the bridge of her nose: a row of digits and then, in almost elegant cursive, _Joanne_.

He did not say anything. After all, by now, _this _was what is normal.

* * *

_October 1995_

She was pretty, in an unusual way. She had soft features, even if her demeanor was almost stern. She was not someone who Maureen even pictured having lunch with.

"Sorry it could so long for me to call you," she giggled, twirling a lock of dark hair around her finger. By now, she was an expert at this flirting game. She knew how this would pan out: the young woman would melt for her charms, she was pay for Maureen's lunch, they would go to her home, have sex, then Maureen would return to her distant boyfriend and "forget" the number again.

She received an unexpectedly bland smile in response and a comment of "That's okay."

What Maureen did not know was that Joanne Jefferson was anything but usual.

* * *

It was winter again. It had been a long time since Roger had been aware of—well—much. But he had woken up one morning and suddenly wanted to _shower_. And dress and look out the window and talk to Mark. Perhaps this was the end; he had finally reached the end of his ordeal.

Ha!

For him, the ordeal was only just beginning. No more withdrawal, sure. But now he was dying. He was grieving and depressed and terrified of the outside world. Getting clean was not what Maureen had promised; nothing was better, he was just a hell of a lot more aware of it. What about his music? His loved ones? His impending death? A simple fucking cold could kill him now, he was sure. And what would he leave behind?

Mark and Maureen would be okay; Mark had his camera, Maureen her performance arts. She was closer to achieving that dream than ever. At some point in the constant party her life had become, she had penned down some ideas and persuaded Mark to be her production manager. They did not need him. If anything, losing him would be better—they would not have to worry about poor, unhinged Roger and his AZT. No more money worries. Collins had MIT; Benny had Muffy and selling out. He had hardly spoken to his family in years save for their occasional phone calls and his occasional postcards to assure them he was alive.

He had not sent a postcard in a year. Just as well, because he was as good as dead.

* * *

_November 1995_

Roger was staring wistfully out the window when Mark came home. For once, his camera was not reeling. Mark's scarf was wound tightly around his neck; his face was red from the cold he had just exited but there was something else. Roger looked at him.

"You okay, Roger?" Mark inquired in a carefully level voice. Roger nodded and watched as Mark dropped his bag on the table and began removing his coat and scarf. There was something different about his movement; they were slow and deliberate. After a second, Roger realized why. Mark's hands were shaking.

"Did you take your AZT?"

Roger scowled and looked back out the window. He waited before asking, "Where's Maureen?"

The sounds behind him stopped. He turned back to see that Mark had frozen, eyes fixated on a random spot on the wall. A few moments later, Mark slowly resumed his motions, speaking in that same even tone.

"She broke up with me,"

Roger felt his eyes widen. It had been some time since he had felt any true, overpowering sensation so the shock was so strong that he could have been pushed off the seat with a feather. _Maureen? Dump Mark?_

"Wh—?"

"She's staying with her—" Mark broke off, stopping again, before clearing his throat as though nothing had happened, "—her new partner."

He sounded so damn _normal_. Somewhere deep inside, Roger felt a stir of empathy for his friend. Neighboring it was complete surprise and indignation at Maureen. This just did not seem like her; to just up and leave Mark after _everything_? Without even mentioning it to him?

At this thought, Roger immediately forced those feelings away. He had hardly been an upstanding friend and confidant to Maureen in recent months. He had his reasons, sure, but that gave him no right to think about her like that.

"Did she say—?"

"_We've just grown apart, Pookie_," Mark snapped, startling Roger with an almost accurate impersonation of Maureen's voice, "_We haven't been happy, it was all sooooo dysfunctional, you cared more about your CAMERA than me!_"

Then he slumped against the table and buried his head in his hands. Roger was torn, wavering between speaking and standing up to go and comfort him. But Roger had not really been touched in a long time; even simple little things like how to console a friend threw him off now.

"I'm sorry," he settled on uncomfortably. Mark lifted his face and smiled weakly at Roger.

"Don't worry about it," Mark replied smoothly, any trace of anguish wiped away, "It's just … it doesn't matter."

"Mark—"

"She was right, I guess," added Mark, a little forlornly, "We _have _been growing apart, ever since…"

He trailed off again and looked up to meet Roger's eyes. He attempted to smile again.

"Take your AZT," he told him. Roger exhaled heavily and leant back against the wall, looking back out the window. He remembered the day the skylight broke; how tempted he had been to feel what April had felt, to shove that shard of glass right into his wrist, through all those flimsy, toxic veins and arteries, and put an end to it all. Maureen had made him reconsider. She had held him and told him things would get back. But they had not and now she had gone too.

But there was Mark. There was Mark and Roger, who did not really have anyone else but each other. Maybe Mark deserved better company but, for now, surely this was something?

Mark was organizing the kitchen now, talking almost to himself considering Roger was barely listening. Somewhere in the middle of his rant, Mark threw out, "I wish her and Joanne every happiness!"

Of course, that Maureen had left him for another woman would be the one thing Roger picked up. He could not remember the last time he laughed like that.

* * *

_Christmas Eve 1995_

Roger had it figured out. All he needed was one song and that would be it.

Mark had his camera. Someday, he would find a pretty girl and settle down and make his movies. Maureen had Joanne and her performance. Her first show was taking place soon and Roger wished that he was not going to miss it but the thought of leaving this loft made his stomach churn. Anyway, Maureen would have all the fans she would need—her ex-boyfriend, her new girlfriend, Collins (back from MIT with a huge grin, a habit of smoking pot and full-blown AIDS). They did not need a depressed, dying, washed-up musician there. Technically, he did not need them. All he needed was one song to make his life worthwhile.

So he dusted off Dad's guitar and set about tuning it and tried to write. It would have to be about love, of course, because that was once all that Roger had strived for: love of a father, love of an audience, love of a girl. It would have to be about redemption, _his _redemption. And it would have to come from deep within his soul.

But the guitar would not tune properly and Roger's talent would not cooperate and suddenly he was doubtful; doubtful that the guitar would ever be played again, doubtful that he had ever been able to write, doubtful even that souls fucking _existed_.

Doubtful that he would ever write one great song before he—

Three knocks at the door. Mark must have forgotten something.

Irritated, Roger turned back towards the door and slid it open, "What'd you forget?"

The hallway was dark but the moonlight filtering through the windows made the warm brown eyes in front of him glitter.

"Got a light?"


	21. Christmas Bells Are Ringing

**What a fitting chapter! Realistically, this will be the last I post before Christmas (hopefully I'll get to update again before New Year's) and, ironically, this chapter is set at…Christmas. I don't plan these things! xD Anyway, we're back to Maureen's POV and the usual pattern now so I hope you guys enjoy and feel free to review. Again, no specific world (i.e. could be musical or movie) but I might throw in a ton of musical references (yes, I am such a nerd! And I watch too much YouTube! ;D) but most of the 'Over The Moon' sequence is stolen from the movie. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and I **_**really **_**hope it isn't too OOC... And Merry Christmas!**

* * *

**Christmas Bells Are Ringing**

_Christmas Eve 1995_

Today was going to be perfect.

How long had she been planning her debut? Years? And how long had she been uninspired and procrastinating? Years? Well, no longer. Maureen Johnson was about to be unleashed and the whole _world _was going to witness it.

(Or, at least, anyone who turned up at the Eleventh Street Lot on the night, which probably limited 'the world' to a gaggle of the homeless people who slept there and pissed-off tenants.)

It had all started in early October, when the loft had received an envelope—not those thin, white, paper ones you can get at any little store with any normal card but an expensive, thick, creamy one with their address inscribed on the front in feminine black lettering. _Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Grey of the Westport Greys request the pleasure of your company on the occurrence of the marriage between their daughter, Ms. Alison Katherine Grey, and Mr. __Benjamin Douglas Coffin III of the Bronx Coffins._

In addition to the invitation was a typed letter from Benny: his future father-in-law had provided him, as a wedding present, with the money to buy both their building and the lot next door. This meant that Benny, as well as a comfortable salary working for Mr. Grey's company, would receive a healthy income from the rent of his former roommates and neighbours. He also made clear his plans to convert the lot into a 'cyber-studio'—what the fuck he meant by that, Maureen did not know. What she _did _know was that building a studio on the lot would mean that all the homeless would be forced to relocate. Not to mention the fact that a massive business running next door to them would completely undermine her beliefs. It was not right!

When Benny and Muffy married, his ex-roommates were not in attendance.

Over two months later, everything had changed. Maureen had moved out of the loft and into Joanne the lawyer's nice little apartment in a slightly better area of town and had practically lost all contact with Mark and Roger along the way. Whenever she tried to call, they (as was tradition) screened. Now the upbeat answering machine message she had recorded ("_HI! This is the home of Maureen, Roger, Benny, Collins and Pookie—we can't come to the phone right now but leave a message if it's important! BYEEE!_") had been replaced with the more callous but nonetheless amusing "_SPEEEEEEEEEAK!_". It hurt a little that she had missed out on something which undoubtedly was fun with Mark and Roger but she was with Joanne now. She had other issues to focus on.

Namely, her show. She had waited years for the right idea and Benny had handed it to her on a silver platter. She would be protesting…(there was even a pause for dramatic effect in her _mind_)…the eviction of the homeless and the growth of virtual reality at the expense of actual reality! It was brilliant!

Joanne was brilliant too. Ever since Maureen had unfortunately had to relieve Mark of his duties two days ago (not out of spite or because he was a bad production manager but because things were just so awkward and some part of Maureen would always feel guilty and he did nothing but remind her that in another circumstance, she would be about to become a mom right now—but she digressed), Joanne had volunteered to take on the work until Maureen could find an official replacement; she found the props, sorted out the equipment and made sure Maureen herself was organized, prepared and rehearsed while simultaneously juggling her job. She was working on an important case right now, apparently, but did not let that stand in the way of her relationship with Maureen.

That was what Maureen loved the most about Joanne. She always found the time, even when she was incredibly busy. She did not love anything over Maureen, she did not descend into random funks; she did what she could, was fair to everything and everyone, and got on with her own life. She was very almost—

The phone rang. Maureen, cross-legged on the plushy couch with her script in her hand, stared before it registered that she should get up and answer it. She remembered Mark and Roger's new message and shrugged, turning back to her notes. _I'll screen._

"_Hi, __you've reached Maureen and Joanne—leave a message. Don't forget Over the Moon, my performance protesting the eviction of the homeless and artists from the Eleventh Street Lot. Party at Life Cafe to follow!_"

A beep, and then Joanne's voice, a forced cheer disguising the strain.

"Don't screen, Maureen, it's me—Joanne! Your substitute production manager, hey hey hey!"

Maureen leapt up, scattering her papers, and grabbed the phone, "Hi, baby!"

"Good morning to you too. Did you eat?"

Maureen rolled her eyes. One problem with Joanne was her constant worrying; she fretted about Maureen's safety, health, hygiene, behavior, capabilities, bla bla bla. However, today, Maureen had not eaten. The butterflies in her stomach were too vigorous for that.

"How's the lot? Is everything ready?"

"Don't change the subject, Maureen," Joanne interrupted sternly. Maureen groaned in exasperation.

"No, okay? I'm too nervous. How's the lot?"

"Darling, you haven't eaten _all day_?"

"Baby, I'll just throw up if I do. I'll get something big for dinner, I swear. Is the digital delay okay, because some of the cables—"

"You won't throw up," Joanne insisted, "You _won't_ throw up. Promise me you'll get something. Now."

Maureen sighed but, inside, her heart swelled. It was nice to have someone worrying for her for a change.

"Yeah, yeah, baby, I'll eat. How's the—"

"The digital delay? Ummm…"

Maureen did not like the sound of that, "Oh, God, you haven't broken it?"

"No, no! It just…well, there may have been one teeny tiny spark…?" Joanne told her hesitantly, unable to help the little upward inflection at the end of her statement. For a beat, there was nothing but silence.

"A spark! Oh God, what if it _is _broken? What if it glitches in the middle of my performance?" Maureen shrieked, "You went to Harvard; I thought you'd be able to handle this!"

There was a minor huff on the other end of the line. It was undoubtedly Joanne thinking that she did not study at the best university in America so that she could fix her new girlfriend's sound equipment and single-handedly save the show. But Maureen did not care about that.

"You know what?" she asked, breathing deeply, "It'll…it'll be okay. I'll just call Mark—"

"You're _not_ calling Mark."

"Joanne, for God's sake, he knows what to—"

"_No_!" Joanne snapped, "I can handle this, I can fix some stupid machine, just _don't _call your ex-boyfriend, okay? I just…Maureen, I'm not a theatre person, I haven't done this before."

Maureen cocked her head to the side, cooing in sympathy, "It'll be okay, honey. Give me, like, five minutes."

"Wha—?"

Maureen hung up quickly and dialed the loft's number. Screw what Joanne said; this was _her _show and she needed Mark.

* * *

The equipment worked perfectly, the show would be saved, but Joanne was acting strangely.

For one thing, she flinched whenever Maureen called her Pookie. For another, she was curious about why and how many times Maureen had cheated on Mark. She panicked when Maureen told her that their neighbor Jill had stopped by. But whenever Maureen dared to ask her what the matter was, Joanne was unflappable. _Nothing's wrong, honeybear. _

Then she gave Maureen her Christmas present: a cell phone. Initially, Maureen was excited, as the phone was probably the most modern, expensive thing she had ever owned. Joanne had grinned at her girlfriend's delight before casually commenting, "This way, we'll always know where each other is," and Maureen had frozen, suddenly aware that Joanne's actions did seem an awful lot like…_jealousy_.

Maureen had a horrible feeling that Mark had said something to Joanne. He had fixed her sound equipment but possibly broken something on his way out.

But she could not concern herself with Mark right now. Her show began in mere hours; she was at home, thoroughly learning her lines and occasionally communicating with Joanne to ensure that they were still patched. She was getting ready for her grand entrance—if only her reserved, snobbish parents could see their precious little daughter riding to the defense of the homeless on a motorcycle her girlfriend had rented for her!—when Mark called.

"Hey, Mo," he said awkwardly. Maureen pressed her lips together and waited for Mark to speak. When he did not, she sighed and asked, "What do you want, Marky?"

"Oh, um, just to let you know that we're all gonna be there to see your show," Mark replied, "And is it…okay if a few extra people come to the Life afterwards? For dinner?"

Maureen perked up, curiously, "Anyone's welcome, Marky. But, er, out of curiosity…?"

"Well, Collins wants to bring a friend. His—_her_ name is Angel. I think you'll like her. And I don't know but I think Roger may be bringing someone…"

"Wait," Maureen broke in, holding up a hand even though Mark could not see her, "Wait, wait, wait. Roger's coming?"

When Mark spoke again, she could hear the surprise in his tone, "Well, yeah."

The butterflies in Maureen's stomach intensified. "That's…ohmigod, that's amazing! When did he get out of the loft?"

Mark chuckled a little, "You make it sound like a prison sentence!"

"Well, it sort of was."

A pause. "Just today, actually. He just left today. There was this…well, you'll see."

There was something enigmatic about the way Mark said that but Maureen barely noticed. Her best and oldest friend back on his feet, possibly ready to reconnect with her? To say the least, this was awesome.

"I'd better make it a good show then!"

* * *

The performance went well, until the crowd got rowdy and the cops that Benny had put on standby began intervening. There was a smash of shattering glass, a thump from a police baton and then a full-out riot broke out. Maureen, slack-jawed on stage, was basically safe; Joanne was ducking to avoid flying bottles; her friends were pushing one another toward the exit. What was supposed to be a defining moment for Maureen had utterly failed.

And it was all that fucker Benny's fault.

Joanne escaped from the tower on which she had been controlling the lighting and made for the stage. Maureen had enough sense left to grab her jacket and purse before Joanne grabbed her hand and the pair ran, evading Benny and the cops who were trying to suppress the defiantly mooing mob. The others had probably headed for the Life Café for the promised celebration but suddenly Maureen was in no mood to party.

"He ruined _everything_!" she wailed as she and Joanne strode down the street, "My show, my work, my message—everything! And all those people getting _arrested_?"

"Honey, the cops won't hold them for long," Joanne told her gently and then curled an arm around her shoulders, "And you did a great job."

Before Maureen could reply—or kiss her—they rounded the corner and found themselves in front of the Life Café, staring at the group of all Maureen's friends.

"There she is!" Collins declared and then stepped forward to embrace the woman he had not seen since the summer. Maureen wrapped her arms around him just as tightly, feeling tears burn her eyes. It was _so fucking good _to see him; the last time they had spoken, he had informed her lowly of his critically low T-cells and official status as an AIDS patient. Three weeks later, she had broken up with Mark, moved out and had been too busy forging a new life with Joanne to call him back and tell him how badly she loved him.

That was the beautiful thing about Tom Collins. If you guys were close, you never needed to apologise because he loved you enough to have already forgiven you. He was going to die—sooner rather than later—but was so full of life and love that even the most miserable person would share the sheer joy he felt every day; the joy of being alive, of being with his nearest and dearest, even if it was for a short time.

Somewhere behind them, Maureen could hear Joanne making her introductions: "Hi, guys, sorry we're late. Hi, Angel, I'm Joanne—Mark, good to see you again…—Roger, nice to meet you—nice to meet you, Mimi…sorry, you look familiar, have we met?…"

Maureen pulled away and grinned up at Collins, "You haven't met Joanne! That's Joanne—Pookie, this is Collins!"

Happily, she spun Collins around and shoved him at a surprised Joanne, who politely held out a hand. In the mean time, Maureen turned to survey the other members of the group.

One face she did not recognize: a tall, beautiful woman with a short black bob, a red jacket, flower print skirt and sky-high heels. She smiled sweetly and stunned Maureen by swooping down to hug her.

"Hi, I'm Angel!" she chirped, "I thought your performance was amazing by the way! I hope you guys aren't hurt?"

Only then did Maureen realize that Angel was a man. She did not mind. After only thirty seconds, she found that she liked this Angel.

Roger was behind Angel, patiently waiting his turn. The second Angel stepped aside to link his arm through Collins', Roger had his arms tight around Maureen, so close that Maureen could feel his heartbeat. His hair was longer now and all the dye was gone; he was completely natural, one hundred percent Roger. He was wearing that old leather jacket and, thankfully, jeans; the plaid was gone. Most importantly, it felt like barely any time had passed, like Maureen had not run out on him and Mark, like they were still as close as could be.

"Don't fucking scare me like that again," he mumbled in her ear and suddenly Maureen remembered watching her first piece of performance art, the way she had broken away from eighteen-year-old Roger to get a front-row place and he had been so afraid that he had lost her. Tears once again pricked at Maureen's eyelids and she buried her face in his chest, longing to recapture what they had once had.

Roger moved back a little and cupped her face worriedly, "Not hurt?"

Maureen shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips unconsciously, "Not hurt."

Roger grinned, relieved, and then dropped his arms, opting instead to tuck them into his pockets. He was still guarded, Maureen noted, and visibly uncomfortable being outside. Her presence and Collins' undoubtedly put him at ease a little but he still had to reacquaint himself with the world, and come to terms with what had changed both in it and in himself.

Roger was not quite the same Roger anymore but that was okay. Maureen was not quite the same Maureen and hopefully they would come to relearn one another too.

As he turned toward the Café, Maureen touched his arm softly, grinning like a lunatic, "It's good to see you, by the way."

Roger returned her sentiment with a smile of his own, before Collins was abruptly between them.

"Should we go wait inside?" he suggested and that was when Maureen realized that Mark was not there. She looked around and down the street frantically for a blue-and-white scarf or the light from the streetlamps glinting off a camera lens but saw nothing.

"Yeah," Roger agreed glumly and he and Collins began shepherding everyone towards the doors. As they moved, Maureen stumbled into Joanne and someone else.

"Maureen, you know Mimi, right?" Joanne asked and Maureen looked at the girl on Joanne's other side. Large brown eyes blinked at her and red lips curved into a charming smile.

"Hi, I'm Mimi," she grinned, "I lived—"

"—below us, yeah!" Maureen cried, excitedly, remembering the young Latina dancer who had been downstairs from the loft almost as long as Maureen had lived there. They had never been introduced, oddly enough, but that was probably because most of their fleeting, short-lived neighbours had been squatting drug addicts or just generally unfriendly so they had been taught not to bother. She only knew that Mimi was a dancer because they had shared a brief word once while checking their mail slots. Mimi had mentioned that she worked at the Cat Scratch Club, Maureen had mentioned that she was an aspiring actress, and both drew their conclusions from that.

"Well, hi!" she trilled now and Mimi giggled, "Did you like the show, Mimi?"

"Yeah, I did," Mimi replied, before her attention was drawn away. As her eyes flitted past Maureen to fixate on something else, Maureen frowned in confusion. No-one had ever just stopped paying attention to her like _that_; most of the time, they were more tactful or at least less obvious. Curious, Maureen looked to see what had distracted her so.

Roger had just stepped into the warmth of the Café and was now brushing snowflakes out of his hair. Maureen looked back at Mimi to see a half-smile gracing her face as she stared. It was only for a few moments but it seemed like forever as the figurative penny dropped for Maureen.

She and Joanne shared knowing glances. _Oh…_

"What?" Mimi asked, looking between the two in bemusement, "_What_?"

"Nothing," Joanne smirked and Maureen giggled with her.

"Nothing at all."

Mimi had a smile that reminded Maureen of April. The two girls looked nothing alike, of course. Where April was pale and blue-eyed, Mimi was dark and tanned. Where April had been petite and sullen, Mimi was wiry and boisterous with a laugh that seemed to ring on like bells. But their smiles both spoke of experience beyond their years, of a certain confidence, of a joint secret. Maureen would later find out that the similarities between weird, red-headed April and lively Mimi with her dark curls would run much deeper than the same pretty smile. But otherwise, they were two very different people.

Except for the fact that they wanted the same man. And while April had tempted Roger down a path towards darkness and death, perhaps Mimi would guide him back towards life.

* * *

Fuck it. Best Christmas _ever_.

"_Viva la vie boh__è__me!_" someone—probably Mark?—bellowed and soon the whole café was chanting this, whooping and clapping and just rejoicing in life and the success of the evening. Collins and Angel were tightly wound around one another; Mark was dancing (or at least by his definition of dancing) on top of the bar; outside, the riot continued and snow fell and Roger was kissing Mimi. Maureen was famous, or at least going to be; footage of her protest was going to be shown on the nightly news, thanks to Mark, the man now flailing wildly and laughing like the world would end if he stopped.

Soon the press would be beating down her door and Maureen Johnson would be a star and she would champion Bohemia and gay rights and defending the homeless _everywhere _and maybe she was a little drunk right now and maybe she would have a killer headache come morning and maybe the world _would _implode the moment Mark stopped dancing but right now, everything was perfect. Everything felt right.

Grinning, Maureen lay back on the table and looked at the ceiling of the café. For a moment, in the midst of the insane, uncontrollable party the restaurant had become, she was a pillar of serenity. She reached out and groped blindly for one of the plates which had been left forgotten as everyone had stood up to dance. She found a fry and popped it into her mouth, closing her eyes blissfully and deciding that, for the first time ever, every aspect of her life worked in sync, meshed, was right, whatever you wanted to call it. The feeling would not continue; this night, Christmas, as Maureen would come to recognize, was the metaphorical calm before the storm.

But even when everything went wrong, Maureen would still have the memory of dancing snow and celebrating Bohemia and Mimi's half-smile and Angel twirling in Collins' arms and the best Christmas ever.

Maureen stole another fry and began to hum to herself. For once, it truly was the most wonderful time of the year.


	22. Sunny Santa Fe Would Be Nice

**CRAP. I'm so, so, so sorry it's been so long! Between schoolwork and outside-work and sleeping more than is humanly possible, my inspiration just died and I couldn't find the time for another chapter. But I finally decided to sit down and write this :) I really hope you guys haven't forgotten me and forgive me for vanishing off the face of the Earth. Here's a long one to try to make it up! The first part takes place after "Take Me Or Leave Me".**

* * *

**Sunny Santa Fe Would Be Nice**

_Valentine's Day 1996_

"What the _hell _was that?"

The February winds were still icy against the skin of Maureen's bare arms and neck. Perhaps she had been a little rash in storming out of the building without a coat but the fire of anger still burnt furiously in her blood and she found that she could easily ignore the cold.

"What do you mean?" she demanded, whirling around to glower at Roger. Scoffing, he wrapped his arms around himself and glanced up and down the street, as though checking that no-one would hear their confrontation.

"That little show inside," he replied dryly. Maureen pressed her lips together and took a few deep breaths.

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Come on, Maureen, don't you think Joanne had a point?" Roger asked, gesturing back toward the front door, "Doesn't the woman you're supposed to love deserve _not _to be cheated on?"

"I'm not _cheating _on her!" Maureen cried, throwing her arms out in frustration, "I just…I flirt! I like flirting! If she really loved me—" she broke off with an aggravated snarl and turned away, pacing up and down the streets in quick little steps and rubbing her temples. Roger waited for a few moments before starting again.

"Maureen, you don't have the best—"

"Best _what_?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake! If you cheated on Mark, what's to stop you from cheating on Joanne?"

"That's different!" Maureen shrieked, whipping back around, "That was—you were sick and April was dead and I had just—"

She cut off again. This time, Roger said nothing. His eyes were cloudy, as though he was remembering that dark time. Maureen noticed that she had absently pressed her hands to her stomach and ripped them again, pretending instead that she had been pulling at the hem of her shirt.

Roger cleared his throat and asked gruffly, "Does Joanne, uh, know?"

"No," Maureen shook her head emphatically, "I don't want her to—look, that isn't important. The point is, if she can't take me for what I am, if she's gonna keep being jealous, then I-I'm not going to stick around."

Roger was silent. Maureen felt that anger well up inside her again.

"What, got nothing?" she challenged, to no response, "I just—what's the big deal anyway? Even if I did cheat on her, I mean…it's _sex_. Not love. Right?"

"Maybe that's not how she sees it," Roger snapped. Maureen arched an eyebrow. Roger sounded annoyed, just as he had earlier, but now that was something else to it… Something clicked in her mind and she gasped.

"Oh, Rog, this isn't about Benny and Mimi, is it?"

Roger stiffened. It was Maureen's turn to scoff, which she did incredulously.

"Give me a break, Roger, she's not—"

"Don't."

"Benny's not gonna risk—"

"Maureen, I said _don't_."

Anyone else would simply take Roger's threatening tone and dark eyes as a sign of going too far and stop completely. Maureen was not anyone; she was Roger's oldest friend, she knew him better than anybody and she _never _knew when to stop.

"What is it with people and jealousy?" she complained, "You can't have an ex or a flirt without getting chewed out! You can't go to a bar without someone breathing down your neck! You can't—!"

Without another word, Roger turned on his heel and back towards the building. Maureen broke off quickly, her eyes widening.

"Rog, I'm just—"

"I'm done," Roger interrupted, stopping and spinning around to glare at her, "If you want to screw up your relationship, _fine_. Just tell me this: why should Joanne have to fit you in her life if you won't do the same?"

Maureen stared at him. Roger stared right back, his eyes focused on her forehead rather than her eyes.

_I'm sorry_, Maureen wanted to say, _I'm sorry. I'm angry. I'm scared. I love her. I don't know what to do. I want you to talk to me._

"Just butt out, Roger," she said instead. There was another moment of quiet before Roger turned and strode back inside.

* * *

_April 1996_

The first anniversary of April's death passed without much recognition. Roger and Collins shared a meaningful glance over the table as Angel breezed about chattering. Mark gave him a sad smile and then pulled out the camera and filmed him plucking at the guitar, as though capturing it on film would prove to some unseen figure that there was life after death. Maureen was being her usual self, lewd and dramatic and flirty—only Roger noticed the way her smile faltered when Mimi exited Roger's room, clearly having expected red hair and a dazed smile.

It was April now and New York was finally beginning to heat up. It was now warm enough to sleep with just one blanket—it was even warmer now that he spent almost every night at Mimi's. Roger imagined that it was much hotter in Santa Fe; ever since Collins had created that little fantasy of opening up a restaurant there, Roger had been unable to stop thinking about it. Mere months ago, he was too depressed and afraid to leave the loft. Now, he longed to escape this whole goddamn city!

Next to him, Mimi sighed softly in her sleep and snuggled a little closer to him. Despite himself, despite Benny and the dancing and everything, Roger felt a smile pull at his lips as he held her tighter. In the moonlight, Mimi looked so much younger and sweeter; only the spots of black bruising on her underarm caused Roger any discomfort. Gently, he lifted her wrist and brushed a thumb over the track marks, unable to help imagining the slide of the needle under her skin and the pressure of pushing the plunger down until, finally…

_Oh God no. _Quickly, Roger dropped Mimi's hand and rolled away, trying to push all those thoughts away. How could he even think about that shit anymore, after all it had cost him? His life, his love, his friends—hell, he could not even trust anyone anymore!

Mimi swore to him every day that she had given up, that she would never go back to the Man, but every day, the track marks seemed to get worse. Roger wondered momentarily what losing her would feel like but forced that notion away too. He could not fathom having to live without her.

Instead, he tried to picture living a full, happy, _healthy_ life with Mimi—no heroin, no Benny, no sadness. But that thought made his stomach twist and something like anxiety broke over Roger like cold water. As the hours towards morning slipped away, Roger closed his eyes and dreamed of Santa Fe.

* * *

_July 1996_

The loft was just theirs tonight. Mark was out filming and contemplating. Mimi was at the Cat Scratch Club. Joanne was working late on a case. Angel had a cold and Collins was taking care of her.

In a perfect world, the loft would have a stereo that Maureen would blast loud music on, and she and Roger would order pizza and relax and talk about regular things like their love lives and work and any random thing. Unfortunately, the world is not perfect: the loft was a dump, they were both broke, there was no work and the first topic of conversation was Roger's AZT.

"So, you and Joanne," Roger eventually said, absently flipping a coin in the air. The nickel was the last piece of money either of them had on them.

Maureen grinned, "We're sort of back together."

"Sort of?"

"Yeah. Like, she's gonna stop being all weird and clingy and I have to stop making eyes at women in rubber in front of her," Maureen rolled her eyes, "It sucks but I think we can do it. How about you?"

"Well, me and Joanne agreed our relationship probably wouldn't—"

Maureen kicked him and poked her tongue out. Still, she could not help chuckling a little. When was the last time that Roger attempted a joke?

"I _mean_," she enunciated, watching him smirk, "you and Mimi."

Roger's smile wilted. His face became stony and the atmosphere in the room became heavy.

"Mark mentioned you guys have been fighting," Maureen muttered reluctantly. She could see how much this conversation bothered him. The old Roger tended to show his distress by making wise cracks; this one preferred to storm out of the room. And right now, he was probably fighting every "fly" instinct he had.

"A little," Roger admitted grudgingly. There was a pause before Roger exhaled and added, "It's just…the smack. That's it. And Benny's being all creepy and stuff. But it's nothing."

His words began to run together a little in his irritation, betraying just how much the whole circumstance upset him. To calm him, Maureen placed a soothing hand on his shoulder.

"Breathe, Davis," she instructed him and he blinked at her. Smiling again, Maureen leaned back against the couch. She will not make him tell her about everything; these things take time. After all, she would feel suffocated if she were pressed about her relationship with Joanne. Sometimes, it is just easier to say nothing.

"Let's talk about something else," Roger suggested. Maureen rolled her head around, peering at the ceiling.

"How's the song coming?"

Roger huffed, "Something _else_."

"That well, huh?" Maureen teased. When Roger said nothing, Maureen sighed, losing her good mood, and asked, "Roger, all those things you've been saying about Santa Fe…"

"What about them?"

"Well. I mean, are you really?"

"Really _what_?"

Maureen frowned at him, "Going to go?"

Roger said nothing.

"Why? That's all I want to know. To write your song? That can't be it; you used to write songs here all the time. I know that that was _before_ but…come on, New York is your _home_. About what about us—me, Angel, Mark, Collins? _Mimi_?"

"I don't know yet," Roger finally replied, scowling at his lap, "I might. I _want _to. Just to escape for a while, that's all."

Maureen pondered this for a second. He had used the word 'escape'—that implied that he wanted out of something. Roger was being as stubborn and cryptic as usual, though, and Maureen knew that she would get nothing out of him.

"It _is _sunny there," she conceded. Roger snorted and looked at her again, smiling.

"Sounds like your kind of place," Roger acknowledged. Maureen hummed a little and casually looked up at the roof again.

"Maybe you should take me with you," she quipped. When Roger said nothing, she looked back at him, noticing a slightly startled expression.

"What do you need to leave for?" Roger wondered aloud. Maureen was silent now. She tried to picture Santa Fe, bathed in yellow sunlight; she and Roger alone together; peace and with the time to find their inspiration and figure out what they want in the future…

"It'd be nice to escape for a while," she parroted. Roger gave her a _look_. That was when Maureen realized that he was not considering the idea as seriously as she was and abruptly felt like a silly child. Of course, she and Roger were not going to run away to Santa Fe together. It sounded too ridiculous, too romantic, not like them at all. Roger was not planning to leave because he wanted to write a song; he was planning to leave because he was damaged and terrified and wanted to find the true meaning of what was left of his life. And Maureen would not leave because she loved New York. She lived and breathed and loved everything New York symbolized. She still had enough time to discover her true calling.

Maureen remembered Valentine's Day, that fight they had had on the sidewalk in the middle of the afternoon. It seemed so insignificant now, and they had forgotten all about it a few days later (no apologies or awkward talks were necessary; they had simply woken up one morning and realized that they no longer cared about the words they had spat at each other and wanted to see one another again). But that day had revealed so much about Roger and Maureen to the other. They had really seen what the events of the last year had done to their friend. Maureen, promiscuous and brash, was open to confrontation, throwing her arms around like a madman and looking for a fight. Roger had crossed his arms as though folding himself away from the world. They were both scared but dealing with it in very different ways.

Now Maureen looked at her oldest friend and wondered if they had been changed too much; if their relationship could still be salvaged.

The phone rang, effectively scaring both Roger and Maureen out of their intense moment and their skins. After a moment of surprise, Roger untangled himself from Maureen and reached for the phone.

"Not screening?" Maureen asked. Roger shrugged and held the phone to his ear.

"Hello? Hey, Collins."

As Roger listened, Maureen watched him carefully for a clue as to what Collins needed. She watched as the smile fell from Roger's face. She watched as he turned away and the muscles in his back tensed, as though he were in pain. When he hung up a few minutes later, Maureen already felt sick.

"He said Angel's really bad," Roger told her quietly, "He took her to the free clinic and…apparently they have to talk to some kind of specialist…"

He trailed off. Tears burned at the back of Maureen's eyes and she tried to blink them away.

"Is…is Angel gonna be okay?" she asked. It came out as more of a whimper. "Roger?"

Roger said nothing.


	23. You Were Like An Angel

**You guys are so awesome and so patient. Thanks so much for the great reviews. You genuinely made me WANT to stray from canon and have Maureen and Roger run off together! :) I won't though…not yet…**

**Anyway, I felt that there was a terrible lack of Angel in this story, considering how important she is to all the characters in the play/movie, so I thought I'd have a chapter of full on Roger/Angel/Maureen friendship. I really should have more Mimi and Joanne and Collins and Mark too…I've been sort of neglecting them. :P Angel's probably hopelessly OOC—writing her is actually pretty hard. I just can't tap into the psyche of a character so sweet and generally amazing…so, sorry that this chapter is probably complete crap. I hope you can find some enjoyment in this part!**

**P.S. While writing this chapter, **_**I'll Cover You (Reprise) **_**started playing. FML.**

* * *

**You Were Like An Angel**

_September 1996_

Roger remembered quite clearly the last time he was in a hospital: being diagnosed with HIV. It was not a pleasant memory for him—just the whiteness of the walls and the banality they promised was enough to spark shudders up his spine—but one that he would rather relive than face _this_.

A peach-coloured curtain was drawn, separating the bed Roger was seeking from the three other patients in the room. He did not so much as glance at the other occupants but could hear the hacking coughs of one, the slurred mumblings of another. Behind the curtain, there was only heavy, rasping breathing. Roger had to swallow down a lump in his throat.

Perhaps he should not have come alone. Perhaps he should have waited for Mimi or Maureen or Mark or even Joanne and suggested it then. But Maureen and Joanne were having some sort of 'make-or-break meeting' (Maureen's words, _not _his) and Mark had gone out to film and ponder again (Roger had a feeling that Alexi Darling and Buzzline was enticing him more and more every day) and God only knew where Mimi was (not that Roger cared, not after their last fight). Collins had practically been living here but, with immaculate timing as always, had chosen now to be persuaded to go home and rest up. That had been the biggest factor in persuading Roger to come; he knew that he would hate to be here alone, even for one evening.

So, Roger took a deep breath and hesitantly peeked around the curtain.

"Roger? What a nice surprise! Pull up a chair, honey. What brings you here?"

Despite himself, Roger smiled a little, "The ambience."

Angel chuckled and patted the side of her mattress coaxingly. Her hazel eyes glittered kindly; her chapped lips still grinned at him. Reddish-purple lesions stretched across her pale skin and her short cropped dark hair and bare face made her seem white as paper. Yet still she smiled. Roger perked awkwardly on the edge of the bed.

"I just…didn't want you to be on your own," he admitted haltingly. Angel's smile grew a little wider.

"Aww, that's so sweet," she cooed before abruptly doubling over and coughing violently into her hands. Roger gripped the edge of the mattress so tightly his knuckles turned white.

_Will this be me soon?_

"Sorry, hun," Angel gasped, "Could you…could…?"

She stretched one bony hand toward the bedside table and Roger caught a glimpse of the IV taped to her wrist and far too prominent vein before realizing that she was gesturing toward a plastic cup and a jug of water on the table.

"Oh! God, sorry," Roger exclaimed, reaching across to pour her some water. Next to her, his hands seemed too tanned, too strong and healthy. Too alive. Angel gulped hungrily from the cup before shakily passing it back to Roger and smiling again.

"So talk to me. What's going on in the outside world?" Angel asked, "God, I can't remember the last time I read a magazine or watched TV. Honestly, I have no energy nowadays…for all I know, the world's ended!"

Roger forced an odd, strangled snicker out, "Not much. Benny's still a jerk. Maureen and Joanne still can't get along. I think Mark's about to sign up with Buzzline."

"Poor kid," Angel sighed sympathetically, "He just wants to do the right thing."

"I know," Roger mumbled, jerking on the end of his sleeve, "He'd hate it, you know."

"I know," Angel paused, looking melancholy for a moment before brightening up again, "How about you? Still plucking out that tune whenever you can?"

Roger pulled a face, "Yup. Still trying to write a song."

"Ah, you can do it, honey," Angel grinned, "And I'd like to hear it, so you'd better do it soon."

The lump returned to Roger's throat, much more difficult to force down this time. Angel seemed to sense this—her face fell for a split second, before she quickly leapt to a new topic.

"How's Mimi-chica?"

_Swing and a miss. _Roger could feel his face become stony. Angel cringed.

"Sorry. I…"

"She was working tonight," Roger lied. Truthfully, he had no idea where his girlfriend was. Maybe with Benny. Perhaps back with the Man. More importantly, Angel was fully aware of that. She reached one hand out and grasped Roger's wrist.

"Roger," she murmured, "Roger, she loves you…"

_No. No. Please don't. I don't want to hear this._

Roger said nothing, but every one of these thoughts must have flitted across his face because Angel trailed off and gently retracted her hand. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few long moments and Roger was just beginning to regret coming when Angel spoke again.

"My parents visited me yesterday," she declared, unable to resist smirking when Roger blinked at her in surprise, "I know, I know. I didn't even tell Collins cos I thought he'd get mad at them. I told him they were old friends then sent him down to the cafeteria!" she giggled like a naughty child before continuing, "It was like something out of a movie; my parents finally said everything I wanted them to ten years ago. About how they loved and accepted me. It was sweet," Angel's smile faltered suddenly and she averted her eyes to her lap, "I just wish they'd said it when I _wasn't_…"

She broke off meaningfully. Roger remained quiet.

"I guess I proved them right in the long run, huh?" Angel added with a chirpy smile. Something inside Roger snapped at that—how could she say that? How could she, brave, cheerful, confident Angel, who was everything Roger wanted to and could never be, say that?

He grabbed both her wrists and pulled them up, towards his heart, "Don't talk like that, Ang. You're just tired. You never did shit wrong, okay? It's your parents' loss and it's sad that they've only just realized it."

Angel stared at him, her eyes round and just a little watery. After a minute, she made a choked noise and croaked, "Rog…water…?"

Roger let her go and reached again for the water. This corner of the room, he noticed, was covered in flowers and baskets. He had not realized before that, compared to the rest of the white, painfully bare room, Angel's bed was lively and colourful.

"Mimi does love you, you know," Angel told him hoarsely as she settled back on the pillows. She let her eyes droop shut slowly. "You just…need to…she needs you to…"

Roger paused, looking back at Angel in confusion. The plastic cup remained in his hand, half filled with warm water.

"Angel? What was that?"

Only then did he realize that Angel had fallen asleep. With a slightly disappointed sigh, he placed the cup back on the nightstand and pushed off the bed. After a moment's hesitation, he instead settled in the chair against the wall, resolving to be there when she woke up.

* * *

_October 1996_

It seemed like they lived with Collins and Angel in that little room. Of course, they were only allowed in during visiting hours but life outside the hospital did not really seem like life; they did not _live_, only survived, while waiting for a phone call, a word, some indication that something was about to happen.

Right now, they were all there. Well, most of them. Mimi was running late, her shift having ended almost an hour ago with no sign of her yet. Mark was at some preliminary meeting at Buzzline with Joanne, getting a rough draft of his contract drawn up. And Angel was drifting in and out of consciousness; even awake, she did not seem truly _there_. So really, it was just Collins, Roger and Maureen.

Roger watched as Collins carefully tilted Angel's head forward and pressed a cup of water gently against her lips and found himself wondering if he would have anyone to do that to him when his time came. Maureen was glancing at him out of the corner of her eye and chewing her lower lip so Roger imagined that she was thinking the same thing.

Angel stirred a little and lightly began pushing Collins' hand away, "Not…_thirsty_…baby."

Collins chuckled a little, though laughter could not alleviate the stress lining his face, "S'good for you, Angelcake."

"Don't care. M'dying anyway," Angel pointed out, resting her head on Collins tiredly. He, Maureen and Roger shared uneasy looks.

"Do you need anything, Angel?" Maureen asked, stepping closer to the bed, "Like, food or…a nurse…?"

Angel shook her head, grimacing, "No. Talk. _Con…ver…sation_?"

The unspoken word—_normalcy_—rang clearly between the four of them.

"Please?" Angel added, opening her eyes to look at them pleadingly. Maureen looked first to Collins, then to Roger for help.

"Um, okay," she stuttered. This was probably the first time in her life she had ever had nothing to say, Roger noted, and the thought made him snigger.

"What's so funny?" Angel asked breathlessly, lifting her head to look at him. Roger cleared his throat.

"Just thinking. This is probably the first time Maureen's ever had nothing to say," he replied. Maureen shot him a dirty look, which quickly melted into a smile when Angel laughed as well.

"Sorry, baby," she chuckled, "He has…a point."

"Shut up," Maureen chirped in reply, lightly squeezing Angel's covered leg. Collins absently dropped a kiss onto Angel's forehead and grinned.

"Can you blame her?" he asked, "The first time she met you, you were screaming at a crowd of hobos about cows."

"Leave me alone," Maureen whined, pouting as Angel giggled again and Roger smirked a little. That grin was fast to slip away as Angel broke off into a coughing fit.

"Sorry…guys!" she spluttered, going limp in Collins' arms and squeezing her eyes shut. Collins held her closer to his chest and hid his face in the top of her head.

"Oh honey," Maureen whimpered, rubbing her leg comfortingly, "It's okay. You're…sick. Don't be sorry—"

"_No_," Angel insisted emphatically, "Not that. That I'm…leaving you when…everything's so…"

She lifted one hand weakly to gesture around the room and Roger instantly understood. _I'm sorry that I'm dying just as Mark's about to give up his ideals. I'm sorry that I'm leaving just as Mimi is going back to drugs and Joanne and Maureen are breaking up again. I'm sorry that I'm making everything worse. I'm sorry that I'm leaving you, Collins. Sorry sorry sorry…_

"Just…remember," Angel wheezed and a smile ghosted across her face, "Today…for me. Tomorrow…"

She trailed off and relaxed against Collins once again. Her breathing was heavy but even. Collins lifted his head, revealing wet eyes and a mouth set in a firm line.

"She's sleeping," he whispered. Roger nodded and pressed his chin into his chest, looking down stubbornly. He was afraid that looking at the scene in front of him a moment longer would push him to tears, which was the last thing any of them needed.

"We'll stay," Maureen spoke for them both. There was rustling as she sat down on the bed and pulled one leg up, "We'll stay tonight."

Roger can not see but he still knew that Collins was smiling gratefully at her. It was not long until Mark and Joanne arrived, their jovial mood following the signing of the contract and Mark's new job quickly dampened by the heavy atmosphere in the hospital room. Some time later, Mimi turned up as well, eyes wide and ringed with black, sleeves pulled right down over her knuckles. She pointedly ignored Roger as she walked in, going straight to her best friend's side.

In the years that would follow, Roger would be grateful for this: that, later that night, Angel would die surrounded by her closest friends.


	24. Stop Escaping Your Pain

**Ack! I seriously love all of you who are reviewing but you're beginning to make me feel guilty for following canon! XD No, seriously, thank you so much. I'm sorry that I killed off Angel but I had planned from the start to follow the original storyline of **_**RENT **_**and then to give my Roger-and-Maureen storyline a conclusion that takes place after the original storyline was finished. I mean, after **_**Finale B**_**, what happens next is pretty much up to the interpretation of fans, am I right? ;)**

**On that note, I believe that we are over the worst of the angst now. From here to the end of the story will basically be about dealing with all of the issues and grief culminated in Roger and Maureen's lives—not just to do with them and their relationship but also with their parents, with the other Bohos and with themselves :3 So, there's still quite a bit packed in this story but I think that there will be no more than five chapters after this…sigh! Still, I hope that what is left of this ride is enjoyable—and that this chapter is up to par too!**

* * *

**Stop Escaping Your Pain**

_Halloween 1996_

The door slammed behind them but Maureen barely took any notice of the loud bang. Joanne's apartment was classy and sensible: cream walls, a handful of framed family pictures, colour-coordinated and practical furniture. For the sporadic months that Maureen had lived there, she had fantasized about buying huge cans of paint and splashing them around the apartment, on the walls, floors, ceilings, furnishings, spraying them in a rainbow of colours. But it was not Maureen's money that had bought this home; hell, Maureen probably would not even pay for the paint. It was Joanne who had bought everything to make it her home. _Her _home. Maureen had never felt like anything more than a long-term guest.

But none of that mattered right now. Maureen's dissatisfaction, her discomfort, was not important. She threw her arms around Joanne's neck and kissed the other woman like there was no tomorrow and that was all that mattered.

The pair stumbled through the living room and collapsed onto the couch. Their arms, legs, hands, lips were tangled together; it was hard for a moment to tell where Joanne began and Maureen ended. That was how she wanted it to be. She wanted them to be one person, to be _joanneandmaureen _rather than separate entities, Joanne and Maureen. She did not want to feel alone in the world; she always wanted Joanne, Roger, _anyone _there to be with her, listen to her, shoulder her burden. Being just Maureen sometimes was a lonely job.

Maureen pushed Joanne into the couch determinedly and pulled back, grinning deviously. Joanne was flushed, her lips swollen and red and shiny with spit and

(_Angel's dead and Roger's leaving and_)

Maureen leant down to bite and kiss at Joanne's neck, her hands wandering down to Joanne's waist, toying with the waistband of her trousers before ultimately venturing up and pushing under Joanne's shirt. The lawyer groaned and her eyes fluttered closed as a breathless sigh morphed into one lusty word: "_Maureen_."

(_Your family's falling apart and it's not the first time, is it?_)

Blocking out anything but her lover's throaty encouragement, Maureen sat up and began to pull at the button on Joanne's trousers.

"Maureen…Maureen, wait!"

Soft hands grabbed at Maureen's wrists and suddenly Joanne was sitting up too, her dark eyes wide.

"Oh, God, I can't do this."

"What?" Maureen cried incredulously, "Sure you can, we've done it hundreds of—"

"No, Maureen, I can't—" Joanne broke off and pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. Maureen felt the muscles in her back relax as she took on a gentler approach.

"Baby, you're _tense_," she cooed, rubbing Joanne's clothed hips soothingly, "It's been a long day. Let me help you, let me just—"

"God, Maureen, _stop _it!" Joanne snapped, shoving Maureen's hands away, "Don't you get it? You want to have _sex_! You want to have sex cos you think it's no big deal, you think it's just something you can do whenever you want, but—it's_ not_! It's _not_."

For one awfully long moment, Joanne and Maureen stared at each other. Joanne was fuming; her lips were pressed tightly together, her brow was furrowed and her hands clenched around the fabric of the sofa. Maureen, for her part, was baffled; where had all of this come from? What was Joanne trying to say? Why did her words stir up a sharp, unpleasant sensation in Maureen's chest?

"I don't know what you're talking about," she eventually said stiffly, "I just wanted to be with my girlfriend—"

"Girlfriend?" Joanne repeated, cutting Maureen off, "Am…_am _I your girlfriend, Maureen?"

"Joanne, what are you _saying_?"

Joanne huffed angrily and shuffled back on the couch, putting as much distance between them as possible, "I don't know. What I _do _know is we've never had a real relationship because you never talk to me. You speak all the time but you never _say _anything. You flirt and date and cheat behind my back and then act like it's no big deal. You don't seem to get that in a committed relationship, that's not how it works. And I don't think you will ever change for me. And…" here Joanne trailed off, instead fixing her view on her lap, "We buried Angel today and I think you just don't want to be alone."

This time, the pause lasted several minutes. It was not awful; it was beyond awful. The tension seemed so thick that a knife could not cut it; so thick that Maureen almost could not breathe. She could practically feel Joanne's words rattling around her mind and her heart, trying to find a place to resonate, to stick, but Maureen could not make any sense of them. Joanne had never spoken like this before.

Finally, when she could take no more, Maureen stood and fled into the kitchen, pushing the door shut behind her. She was not quite sure what it was that she was feeling. She felt…confused. She felt…conflicted. She felt…upset. She felt…

…like calling her parents.

* * *

Outside, Maureen could hear Joanne moving about, rearranging the room, like she always did when she was anxious. This stirred affection in Maureen but not, she was dismayed to realize, anything stronger. She grasped the phone a little tighter and planned to speak quieter when she was eventually answered.

_Three rings, four rings, five rings_, Maureen counted, _When will I know that they won't answer? Six rings…I should hang up. I should—_

"Hello?"

The voice was foreign. Maureen, for a split second, thought that she had dialed the wrong number.

"Hello?" she replied.

"Hello?" the voice parroted. It was a small voice, high-pitched and curious. After a moment, it hit Maureen that it was a child's voice. After another moment, it hit Maureen that she was speaking to her seven-year-old brother.

"Scott? Is that you?" she asked. There was a silence—Maureen could still hear breathing on the other end of the line—before Scott responded, "Yeah…?"

"Hey, baby! It's Maureen, your big sister!"

Maureen spoke as she always did: chirpy and bright, using terms of endearment that came almost naturally. In reality, she had never seen this little brother in the flesh, only in photographs that her stepmother insisted on sending her every Christmas. Scott looked a little like her (the same wild brown hair and wide smile) but he was apparently a shy and studious boy, not anything like his vivacious sister.

"Oh…hi."

"Listen, sweetie, is Daddy home?"

After a second, there was a rustling on the other end of the line and a faint holler of "DAD! S'FOR YOU!". Approximately one hundred and seven seconds later—Maureen was counting—a new voice inquired, "Hello?"

Maureen swallowed, "Um. Dad. Hi, it's Maureen."

Bill Johnson gave a surprised burst of laughter, "Maureen! Why, when was the last time _you _called _us_?"

Maureen forced a chuckle of her own, "God, I don't know. Years?"

"Fancy you calling, today of all days! Fiona was just saying this morning that we should get you home for Christmas this year. I know you evaded our last attempts but hey, no harm in hoping, right? Maybe you could even bring that…companion…of yours. What's her name, Joanna? Well, your mother told me—I ran into her at the post office—she was telling me that she and Ed got to see you and her in January, was it, or February? Anyway, it was just a thought. I don't suppose you and Joanna would be interested, would you? … Maureen? Pumpkin?"

"Her name's Jo_anne_, Daddy," Maureen told him, uncharacteristically quiet. She had been listening to her father prattle on about Christmas and suddenly she had realized that she could not remember the last time her father had actually said anything to her. Was it so long ago? Had he ever? Her mother too? Maureen remembered Joanne's words from earlier and her stomach flipped.

"Joanne? Oops, my mistake. But listen to me carry on! Surely my famously mysterious daughter didn't call me to correct my pronunciation?"

"Daddy, do you remember that Christmas when I was supposed to be with you but I was sick?" Maureen blurted, suddenly nervous. There was a pause.

"That…well, yes, I think I do. You were…what? Twelve?"

"Thirteen," Maureen corrected, "Almost fourteen."

"Wow. So long ago?" Bill chuckled, "My, how things have changed."

"I was faking," Maureen admitted in a small voice, "I wasn't really sick."

There was a heavy sigh, "I know, honey. I had a feeling you weren't comfortable being with me and Fiona that year. And it's okay. It was such a painful situation for you."

"It was," Maureen agreed, and abruptly her throat closed up. She squeezed her eyes closed as she felt tears well up and finally she choked out, "God, Daddy, everything's wrong!"

"What? Maureen, what's wr—?"

Maureen was beginning to cry in earnest now. All it had taken was that one memory—that cynical, unhappy teenager curled up on her bed—and suddenly she had understood what Joanne was telling her. How long had she been like this? Had that one experience—her parents' divorce—been the reason behind everything-her acting out, her promiscuity, her skewed outlook on life and love and fidelity? It felt almost like Maureen had taken a step outside herself and seen what she truly was. She had never had a real relationship; she was surrounded by people who would all one day leave her; she retaliated by being loud and over-the-top, being a flirt, throwing herself at anybody, hoping that they would love her and want her and let her be in control, let her choose when to end their liaison; and someday, she would be alone. Unloved. Had she been fated for this since _childhood_?

"Daddy, please," she sobbed, her breath hitching hopelessly, "Daddy, j-just talk to me. _Talk _to me. Please? Tell me it'll all be okay."

_Let me tell you about Roger and Nathan and Mark and Joanne and my baby, Daddy. Let me tell you about acting and Mimi and Collins. Let me tell you about Angel and how much I miss her. Help me, Daddy. __See me, Daddy, see that I'm hurting, can't you see?_

There was an awkward throat-clearing from her father's end, "I…I don't…look, maybe you should talk to Fiona or your mom about this. This…isn't really _my _forte, darling. Do you want me to get Fiona for you?"

Another wave of cries threatened to wrack Maureen but she held them at bay. She sniffled and, in as steady a voice as she could muster, replied, "That's okay, Dad. I'm sorry about this."

"Good girl," he smiled, "You should call next weekend…if you're…okay, that is."

"I will be, Daddy. You can count on it."

Maureen clamped her eyes shut and listened to her father utter a goodbye and hang up the phone. She stood, suspended there, for what felt like forever, before slowly hanging up. She felt even worse than before, she found. She needed help. She wanted Roger.

But Roger had escaped to Santa Fe and Angel was dead and Maureen had never felt more alone. So she did the only thing that seemed to make perfect sense in that moment: she leaned her forehead on the wall and cried.

Only minutes later, she felt cool hands on her back and then she was spinning around and clutching Joanne to her like a lifeline.

"I'm sorry," she wept into Joanne's shoulder, "I'm _sorry_. I—I had to, I had to call him, I—"

"It's okay," Joanne murmured soothingly, rubbing Maureen's back, "It's okay."

They stood like that for the longest time—Maureen crying in Joanne's arms—until Maureen's throat grew dry and she realized that she had nothing left with which to sob. Gingerly, she detached herself from Joanne's arms and cleared her throat uncomfortably.

"Feel better?" Joanne asked and Maureen chuckled.

"A little," she admitted, "I needed that."

Joanne smiled at her, before tentatively rubbing her arm, "Do you…want to talk about it?"

Maureen considered this. If she was honestly, Maureen was tired. She had little interest in talking at that moment; she wanted to _sleep_, more than anything, and pretend that this whole day was just a bad dream. But she knew that soon, she would want to discuss this. Was Joanne—who Maureen cared about but with whom she had always had a volatile relationship—the right person to hear Maureen's innermost secrets and feelings, most of which only one other person had been privy to? How would Joanne even be able to look at her in the same way if she knew everything about the divorce, about Maureen's past lovers, about the child that never quite was, about _Roger_?

So, carefully, Maureen told Joanne that no, she just wanted to lie down now. And, later that night, Maureen made her first adult decision: she and Joanne sat down and spent hours talking about their relationship, about what they both wanted. Joanne was ready to find someone to settle down with; her career was at a point where Joanne felt comfortable enough to step back and focus on other aspects of her life. Maureen, meanwhile, knew that she was in no place to offer any of that. She recognized now just how (for lack of better words) fucked up she was; she needed time to sort herself out.

So it was that Joanne and Maureen parted that night not as warring lovers but as tentative friends. That night, Maureen reappeared at the loft with a suitcase and asked Mark with a broad smile if the couch was going spare.

"For you, always," he answered with a tired smile and pushed the door open a little wider. For Maureen, it did not feel like the beginning or the end of anything. It felt slightly like coming home.

The loft felt emptier than usual—there was no lanky blonde man smirking at her, no Musetta's Waltz floating through the apartment, and Maureen felt this loss perhaps more strongly than her roommates. She pushed her suitcase against the couch and then peered out of window at the darkening sky. She wondered vaguely if the sky looked like this in Santa Fe, if Roger was anywhere near there yet. She wondered if Angel was looking down at her from this sky, or if Angel was looking up at it and thinking of them as Maureen thought of her, or even if Angel was in some other plane of existence where she could drum and laugh and make dresses forever. Finally, she wondered if she, Maureen, would ever be alright again. To all of these questions, Maureen received no sudden epiphanies, no definite answer—maybe, maybe not.

For reasons she could not explain, Maureen was actually relieved for that.

* * *

**A quick note about this chapter. In the movie/play, Maureen and Joanne seem to get back together; they certainly reconcile. HOWEVER. It is never actually stated that they are girlfriends again. Besides, between the funeral scene and the finale, who knows what happened? I've chosen to present this as an option, because it fits in with the ending I have in mind, but of course, in canon, I think the intended conclusion was that they are indeed reunited. You know, when you think about it, Maureen and Joanne were thoroughly underused characters…;) **

**And yes, this was a giant angsty Maureen chapter that referenced past chapters a lot and had practically NO ROGER so I am very sorry for that. However, it is also supposed to show that Maureen has completed Step One in the becoming-a-normal-functioning-person process. And by that, I mean that Maureen can see now that her actions so far haven't necessarily been healthy and change is in order. Now we just need to sort out that pesky Roger…**


	25. Connection In An Isolating Age

**Sorry that it's been a while, guys. I just haven't been feeling it lately. :( Still, I'm pretty happy with this chapter. Beware, it's probably the most fluff-tastic thing I've written for this story in quite a while. The end is rather angsty, or will lead to angsty happenings but before that, there is considerable fluff. Roger is clearly much happier about his issues than Maureen :) And good news: More Mark! :D Warning: the end actually sucks. I lost drive right there. D: Still, I'm pretty happy. Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

**Connection In An Isolating Age**

_November 1996_

It was not warm in Santa Fe. Not warm, but yet not freezing, New-York cold either. There was a chill, a breeze that made Roger shiver and clutch his jacket tighter around himself. He had been living in the city for nearly four weeks now and still had to look up and down the streets in search of the snow he had become accustomed to at this time of year.

A passerby flicked a coin in the direction of Roger's guitar case. He was not playing at the moment; he had decided to take a break when his fingers started to go numb and was now huddled with his hands shoved in his pockets. He probably _did _look a little like a hobo but that did not stop his cheeks flushing with irritation.

"Thanks, asshole," he muttered. He wanted people to give him money when listening to his music; he had become a sort of street performer, ___à__ la _Maureen, he supposed. He did not want money from people who just pitied him. He wanted it from people who, maybe, thought he was good.

He kept the quarter anyway. _Guy's a fucking cheapskate_.

Truth be told, Roger was tired. Not emotionally or mentally, nothing like that—he certainly was not letting the past events get to him, not here. Roger was literally _tired_. He had a tiny room rented from a greasy bald man for fifty bucks a week (Roger was lucky to find a deal like that, since he had sold the hunk-of-junk car and blown most of the money on his new guitar) and he had to share that tiny room with some punk with a bad attitude. Said punk would stay out ridiculously late, deciding to crash back in when Roger was trying to sleep, and then continue to keep his roommate awake by jabbering drunkenly, persisting no matter what Roger screamed or threw at him. (Honestly, the kid was like Maureen….on acid…with a bad haircut.) Roger could either deal with it or sleep in the hallway. He had tried that once, but the walls were thin—thinner than those of the New York loft—and he had subsequently heard more of the neighbours. Sometimes they would be fighting terribly, sometimes watching television and laughing or shouting uproariously, sometimes having very loud, apparently passionate sex. The noise was never-ending. Roger could not remember the last time there had been blissful silence.

Roger rubbed his eyes and sighed into his hands. _God_, he missed home. Maureen, Mark, Collins. Even Benny, a little. New York—the traffic, the Life Café, the sounds he was used to, the mad, brilliant people.

Mimi.

Dad's guitar.

In the guitar case beside Roger sit eighteen dollars and a brand new, unfamiliar guitar. Roger did not like any of it. Soon it would be December and then Christmas and Roger would be alone, without even his most treasured possession. And was it not just a year ago that being alone was Roger's nightmare?

_You weren't alone_, whispers a traitorous voice in his mind, _They offered you everything and you pushed it away._

"Shut up," Roger begged his mind as tears clouded his vision, "Please, shut up…"

He wanted it all to be over. He wanted to stop being miserable and angry and self-destructive. He wanted the last thirteen years of his life to be erased; he wanted to be goddamn normal and strong and _happy_. In this, he finally knew how April—beautiful, strange, sad, April—had felt in those final tragic days.

Yet…

_Yet_.

Behind that desperation, Roger realized that he had no desire to…you know. _Die_. Here, the similarities between him and April ended. Roger wanted to stop suffering but there was still some good stuff in with the bad, right? There was…

Dad. Dad, who had died with Roger angry at him, who Roger never got the chance to tell he loved him. Dad, who had taught him to play the guitar and inspired him to follow his passion. Dad, who had been a constant presence throughout Roger's life, who had influenced so much of who Roger was. His dad, Gregory Davis, whose conviction that Roger should even be born was based on the possibility that Roger _might _bring something good into their family's lives; who had believed in his son wholeheartedly, no matter what.

Then there was the rest of his family: his mother, Alexandra, who had watched her second son become bitter and difficult, who had turned a blind eye to his misery in his adolescence because it was easier and weren't they _all _hurting anyway? Alexandra, who, despite the distress Roger brought her, remained quietly and unflinchingly supportive, even though she had learnt of her son's illness in a postcard. And Richie, the golden boy, who had send something thoughtless to his brother and paid for it ever since. And Rebecca, baby Becky, who Roger now understood was a very pretty high school senior. His whole family, who Roger barely knew but who, he now understood, were _human _and made mistakes, just like him.

And what about his other family—that ragtag bunch of artists, all wonderfully crazy in their own ways? Collins, the man who had taken him in after one meeting, who had stood up for him and helped him and told him when enough was enough? Mark, his best friend, who had practically given up his own life to keep his friends alive? Maureen, who meant so much to Roger that they seemed to transcend the ordinary boundaries of familiarity to the point where Roger did not consider her friend, girlfriend or sister but rather a deeply ingrained, unchangeable constant in his life—_part _of him, if you will? Then there was Joanne's comforting, down-to-earth attitude and Angel's unswerving belief and optimism and Mimi—

_and her hair and her smile and her laugh and her tears and her love and her trust and her eyes and_

Roger chuckled wryly to himself and reached to pull a string on his brand new, perfectly tuned, ugly guitar as he mused. When he thought about Mimi, his thoughts became—unconsciously—almost poetic. Lyrical, even.

_There's a song in there_, Roger thought, plucking the next string and remembering Mimi last Christmas and the way the flame of her candle had glinted golden in her warm brown—

…wait.

* * *

_December 1996_

"Hello?"

"Hey. Mark. It's, er, it's Roger."

"Oh, hey, Rog. What's going on?"

"Nothing much. I…how are things at home?"

"Things are…well, okay. Work is…you know. Eh. Collins is…well, I'm not really sure what he's doing. But Maureen's here—well, not here, she's out right now but…she's home again."

"Really? That's good. And how's…never mind. Listen, Mark—"

"Yeah, Rog?"

"…ImissyouandIwannacomehome."

"…huh?"

"I said I…I wanna come home. Santa Fe isn't all that. It's warmer and nicer but that doesn't mean shit when your family's not with you."

"…"

"Marky? What do you say?"

"What do I say? Do you even need to ask? Get your ass home, Davis."

* * *

_three days later_

Roger did not think he had ever been hugged this hard. Not by anyone, not even Maureen or his own mother. Mark was literally _clutching _him, as though releasing him would let him slide out of reach again.

It would not. Not this time.

When Mark eventually pulled away, his face was carefully kept calm, belying the wet streaks on his cheeks. He laughed and so did Roger, because he could feel similar tears pool in his eyes. A month and a half was too fucking long.

"It's windy," Mark commented at last. Roger grinned.

"Yeah, really."

It was not; the air was cold and their breaths fluttered mistily from their mouths but it was still. They both knew what the tears were: sadness and joy, the first crack in Mark's mask and the first glow of Roger's heart in a long time. So much had happened since—well, since they had met. Maybe Mark did like to hide behind his camera and disengage; maybe Roger tended to run from his pain. For now, they did not. For now, they just let go.

"Help me get my shit inside," Roger commanded. Mark smiled and leant down to grab Roger's backpack.

"You couldn't have dumped it in the loft on your way up here?"

"Gimme a break, I wasn't thinking. They never show _this _side in the movies. Besides, you wanna stay up here? It's fucking freezing."

Mark shrugged his agreement and the pair tramped down to the loft just in time to hear the door slide shut. Mark glanced at Roger, eyes twinkling in amusement.

"Mo's home."

"So?"

"…I haven't told her _you _are yet."

Roger stared at him, "You…sneaky bastard. She's gonna have a heart attack!"

Mark shrugged again, "She'll die happy. I don't think she's been really happy in a while. This'll cheer her up, at any rate."

The matter-of-fact tone Mark had spoken in seemed to stab through Roger like a blade. He talked as though quiet misery and death was something to be taken lighter. He knew that Mark had been joking about the heart attack, of course, but he most certainly was not about Maureen's unhappiness. Had they become so used to the constant cloud hanging over their lives that they had forgotten what the sun felt like?

Well, hopefully he could change that. Roger hiked up his guitar case and patted it absently. Inside was an old, battered guitar recently bought back from the pawnbroker, as well as half a dozen pieces of notepaper, all titled _Mimi's song _or _Your Eyes_. Perhaps his song would not be able to do much—it would not bring him fame or fortune, it would not change anybody's life—but it was a _song_. A song that he had written for the girl he could finally stop running for. The girl he wanted to give his heart to. That purpose had given him the redemption and glory he had sought, at least in his eyes. Finally, Roger felt like he had grown up and could be the son, friend, lover his family and loved ones deserved. Then maybe the world would not look so grey.

Mark pulled the door open and hesitantly stuck his head in, "Um. Maureen?"

"Hey Mark," came the nonchalant reply. Roger felt a smile stretch over his face. He had never compared Maureen's voice to anything sweet before but—well, right now they were church bells.

"Hey. Okay, so, don't freak out, okay?"

"Wh—?"

"And…don't kill me. I have a surprise."

Roger rolled his eyes, suddenly getting the feeling that the next few minutes would be an anticlimax for Maureen now. What would the return of a friend be when she was undoubtedly picturing Mark bringing in money or a new heater or…or…a unicorn or whatever shit Maureen liked? Grumpily, he yanked the door open further and barged past Mark.

"Hey, Mo. I'm home," he announced casually, lowering his bags to the floor. Maureen's head snapped up and her eyes widened.

"Roger!" she exclaimed, the mail she was sifting through slipping out of her hands and onto the floor, "You're…you're here?"

"Yup."

"You're _back_?"

"No shit, Sher—"

Before Roger could even finish his word, Maureen had pounced. If Roger had thought Mark's hug earlier had been tight, he had no way to anticipate _this_. Maureen's arms wound around his neck and pulled (_hard_) so Roger literally stumbled into her, forced to curl his arms around her waist just to steady himself. Maureen ground her face into his shoulder and breathed in deeply, though Roger was not sure whether this was to re-familiarize with his scent (which was probably all car fumes and sweat and cigarette smoke) or to stop herself from crying. It was this display of emotion that had Roger returning the embrace just as firmly, closing his eyes and rubbing Maureen's back comfortingly.

"Hey, Mo," he murmured in her ear, unable to keep a smile out of his voice. She exhaled shakily.

"D-don't fucking s-sc-scare me like that again," Maureen choked out into his shoulder and Roger recalled being eighteen, and then twenty-four, and saying that to her when he had been afraid that she was hurt. When he had feared that he had lost her forever. He did not say anything because he was not sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry, but he held her a little closer to him and she seemed to understand.

Several moments passed peacefully, before Mark awkwardly cleared his throat and voiced, "Guys?"

This seemed to shatter the glass dome Maureen and Roger found themselves under and they leapt away from each other quickly. Roger rubbed the back of his head and cleared his throat.

"Um, yeah, good to see you again," he told her gruffly. She just rolled her eyes and swatted his arm. (Hard.)

"Ow!"

"You _asshole_, why didn't you say anything?" Maureen demanded, hands on hips. The smile on her face betrayed her, however, and Roger merely presented her his defiantly upright middle finger. Maureen snickered, before her eyes flitted towards Mark.

"_Marky_…"

"What?" Mark asked confusedly, only to be greeted with the sight of Maureen advancing towards him, a devious smirk on her face, one hand raised…

"No, no, no—Mo, I was _gonna_—ow!"

Huffing, Maureen stalked triumphantly to the sofa and threw herself down, "I'm living with complete jerks. As punishment, I won't help you unpack."

"Bitch," Roger grumbled as Mark rubbed his arm mournfully. Maureen stuck her tongue out.

"Listen," Roger added, reaching down to grab his guitar case, "I need, like, twenty minutes. Twenty minutes, then I'll be back and we can go to the Life or something. I just need to run down to Mimi and—"

"_Mimi?_"

Roger, halfway to the door, stopped. Maureen had half-risen and was exchanging panicked glances with Mark.

"Yeah, so?" Roger questioned. Maureen stood fully now and she and Mark continued glancing around sheepishly, anywhere but at him. "_Guys_?"

"I thought someone told you," Mark admitted quietly. Roger's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Told me what?"

"Rog, honey, listen," Maureen cooed, placing her hands together as though she were about to pray, "After—after Angel's funeral, after you left, Mimi was really upset. We, we tried to comfort her, we even offered to get her into rehab—well, Benny did, don't get mad—but she wasn't interested and she…well…"

"Guys," Roger repeated, a little more forcefully now, "Tell me. Now."

Silence. More worried looks. Fear and anger was beginning to bubble in Roger's gut now. _Something's happened_.

"Guys—"

"Mimi's missing," Mark blurted out, "Nobody's seen her in a couple of weeks now. She's not been at work, or at home, or with anyone else. She's…I'm sorry."


	26. No Other Road, No Other Way

**I know it hasn't been that long since my last update but I don't know when I'll get another chance because school starts again on Tuesday (happy Easter, btw :D) and the next month or so, I really should be focusing on…you know, not failing xD Be warned, though, we're delving more into angsty regions in this chapter. I was trying to be realistic about Mimi's condition post-**_**RENT**_**. Unfortunately, realistic=depressing :P Seriously, though, we're looking at approximately three chapters left in this whole story so hopefully this'll be the last load of sadness it throws at you :) Enjoy!**

**P.S. Big thanks and mega-props to you guys for getting this story over 100 reviews! –celebrates- (Especially to **_**phoenixbird777**_**, who spent TWO DAYS reading this and reviewing almost every chapter! It certainly made me realize that the fic has become a bit of a beast xD Thank you so much for committing!)**

* * *

**No Other Road, No Other Way**

_Christmas Day 1996_

Maureen watches as her family leaves her and the city burns. Mom seems to smile blissfully, peacefully, shamelessly even as she fades away, scattering into the wind, ash and dust. Daddy is torn from her, his mouth twisted in a silent scream, an accusation, and Maureen does not know whether to tug him tighter as he rips or push him further away. Fire licks up Roger's arms and curl into bonds, melting away his skin and infecting his very blood, and through it all, he is stoic. Angel dances in the flames. War and starvation and corruption poison the skyline of New York City. Mimi's right arm drops in defeat and her eyes say goodbye—

Maureen was shaken awake by a large arm on her upper arm. Collins was still healthy and strong but, in the bright white light of the waiting room, with heavy bags under his eyes and his lips drawn in a tight line, he looked almost sickly. The clock on the wall read eighteen minutes past three in the morning.

"Maureen," Collins' voice was low. The hand not wrapped around Maureen's arm held out a paper cup, "Drink."

Maureen squinted at him and pouted at being woken up for a drink, but accepted the cup. The liquid inside was dark brown and sludge-like; it tasted just as bad.

"Did the doctors say anything about Mimi?" she asked. Her voice was hoarse. She also realized that her neck was sore, her back ached and her legs were stiff. _Joy to the world…_

"Nah," Collins replied. Beyond him, Maureen could see now that Joanne was curled up on the row of seats opposite them; Benny was also there, arms crossed and eyes wide open, staring fixatedly at a spot on the ceiling. Maureen reckoned that Collins must have called him; they had become chummier recently, what with Benny paying for Angel's funeral and all. But now was not the time to feel bitter about Benny. They were all here for the same reason, weren't they?

Maureen pulled her legs up onto the chair and folded them underneath her. "It's Christmas," she pointed out in a small voice. A ghost of a grin quirked Collins' mouth.

"Yeah, it is," he replied, "Merry—" he broke off and frowned, as if realizing that 'merry Christmas' was not a fitting statement, "Um…" finally, he gave up and mumbled, "_hum-hum_" before cheerfully adding, "Christmas, Maureen!"

Maureen smiled—despite the miserable situation this Christmas had begun in, Collins still managed to make her smile, "_Hum-hum _Christmas, Collins."

* * *

It was seven minutes to four when Mark finally emerged from around the admissions' desk. He was paler than usual, his hair sticking up at all angles and his movements laboured, as though he were dragging weights behind him. Collins stood immediately and caught Mark's arm. They were far enough away that Maureen could not hear their exchange, only see Mark's carefully neutral expression and Collins' anguished face. Collins closed his eyes and took a deep breath and then both looked back to Maureen, who is by now the only family of Mimi Marquez both still present and awake.

Maureen stood and ran for the restrooms before either of them could speak. The tears in their eyes spoke volumes.

* * *

Nurse Pascal, a small, blonde haired little woman, smiled shyly at the group of Bohemians around her patient's bed and calmly wiped a cool flannel across the girl's sweaty forehead. The air was thick with silence as Mimi's breath rasped and Roger, hands firmly in pockets, brooded silently.

The doctors told them that there was a whole list of things wrong with Mimi: a severely low T-cell count; malnutrition; muscle spasms and insomnia from heroin withdrawal; internal damage. None of them thought it likely that Mimi would live longer than six months. The sight of Mimi, lying in her hospital bed, bony and small, her brown eyes huge and sunken in her head, seemed only to support their diagnosis.

Initially, Maureen feared that Roger would want to bolt. He had after Angel died, when Mimi had first begun to weaken. It seemed that every bone in Roger's body told him to run whenever the going got tough. It was his survival instinct. As the doctor delivered his damning conclusion, Roger had certainly looked like it; his eyes were wide, his hands twitched, his feet shifted. Maureen would not have been surprised if he had simply turned around and fled. She would have hated him—no, she was not just saying that, she would have _hated _him—if he had, but she would not have been surprised.

However, Maureen had forgotten to take into account that Roger was really, truly, openly in love with this girl now. It had been some time since Maureen was utterly besotted with someone (her and Joanne's honeymoon period had been broken off early by jealousy and Mark was practically ancient history, no matter how often Maureen thought about—_well, that doesn't matter_); she had almost forgotten how it felt.

Roger did not run. Roger did not break down. Instead, Roger took a deep breath, reached out to clasp Mimi's hand, leant down, and quietly told her that he would ensure that she would live to be twenty-one. Mimi smiled and suddenly, her poor health ceased to matter; the smile was so bright that she looked almost strong again and Maureen could pretend that everything was alright.

* * *

_March 1997_

Mimi hung on until the start of March, at which point she turned twenty-one years old. Roger, Joanne and Mark had fiercely guarded her well-being since being brought home, but today finally conceded that Collins could give Mimi a _little _Stoli in celebration. He presented the shot glass—small as it was but only about a third full—with a dramatic flair and Mimi was choking on laughter before gulping down her first _legal _alcoholic beverage. She whooped delightedly and did not croak or gasp; it was so good that Maureen could have cried.

"Any birthday wishes?" Mark asked, pointing the camera at the birthday girl. He looked like he regretted the question a quick second later but Mimi answered anyway; she stroked her chin in a parody of thinking and threw the camera a winning smile.

"_Any _wish?" she inquired. Mark glanced nervously at Roger before nodding.

"No matter what?"

A longer pause. Maureen eventually answered for Mark, "Go for it, girl."

Mimi _hmm_-ed quietly before peering up at the camera again.

"I wish," she began slowly, "that you would send _Today 4 U _to a company or wherever you send films. Seriously, it's good. And I wish Maureen would pick her butt up and do another protest. I wish that you guys would be happy no matter what happens. All of you. Annnnd…" she stopped, brow furrowed in thought again before choking back a weak cough, "And I wish that I weren't so freaking weak right now cos I wanna go dancing. Ah well. I'll settle for getting to die somewhere that _isn't _a hospital. I don't wanna die in a hospital. I'm not brave like Angel. I wanna be with my stuff, you know?"

She grinned again. The people around her were silent. The only noise was the whirring of Mark's camera, which was pointed steadfastly at Mimi's drawn, ashen, still _alive _face. Then, Roger stood and went to his room without a sound. Collins immediately followed, groaning "Roger, come _back_!" as he did. Joanne ran a hand over her face; Mark kept filming. The skyline of New York City was cloudy; Maureen had a feeling that it would rain later that day.

"I don't feel any shame," Mimi told them, looking directly at the camera, "I don't have to apologize."

* * *

_later that night_

"I love you," Roger said to Mimi. It was late, late enough that Mark and Collins were asleep and Maureen ought to have been. Roger's door was left slightly open; he did not think that it mattered.

"I know," Mimi replied.

"I really do."

"I _know_."

"I don't want you to die."

"…I know."

Maureen closed her eyes and wished that she could close her ears as easily. The skylight above her was still broken (Mark was finally looking into getting _Today 4 U _distributed so hopefully more money would come in and they could change that); the tarpaulin hung low so Maureen could see a sliver of the night sky between the ceiling and canvas. It was spring; the sky was clear. In the next room, Mimi coughed violently enough for Maureen to feel the pain in the deepest recesses of her heart.

"No day…but…today, Rog," she breathed. Roger made a sound somewhere between an angry laugh and a bitter sob.

"That's bullshit, Meems," he told her, "There _is _a future and I don't want mine without you."

The silence stretched on for several moments. Maureen pictured the scene: Roger, sitting up with his back pressed to the wall, face distorted in agony and grief; Mimi, so very ill and weak, curled up on her side on the old mattress, peering up at him through the darkness, trying to give him some small comfort.

"There's…Mark…and Maureen and Jo…and Collins. There's…music. And Santa F…Fe. Life S-Support. There's _life_."

Roger's next words were muffled. Maureen imagined that he had lain down and pressed his face into Mimi's neck, breathing in and committing to memory the sweet scent of _her_, mixed with the smell of death. Maureen pushed her face into the sofa cushion and pulled her pillow over her head. She did not want to hear anymore.

Mimi was dead two weeks later. The night she died, Maureen dreamt the same dream she had in the hospital, except this time, New York City was bathed in sunlight. As the world was pulled down into some dark, terrible dystopia, Mimi danced with Angel and sang a song of life, without fear, without shame, without regret.


	27. The World Revives, Colours Renew

**Yay, nearly all my exams are done with! :D I still have one more but I figured I could take some time to write a chapter. Only, it turned into a bit of a mammoth. Therefore, I have to apologize for the length, and also for the introduction of an OC but I'm trying to work for a sort-of-happy ending, and that means for EVERYONE. :) Oh yeah, and also if there's any OOC-ness. So, yeah, enjoy!**

* * *

**The World Revives, Colours Renew**

Looking at him, you would not believe that any time had passed; that he had grown and changed and learnt at all over the last year. He was back, so to speak, to square one.

Time had become all blurry and uncertain since they had put her in the ground. For all Roger knew, it could have been days or months. It did not matter anymore. She was dead; his love was dead; hope was dead. He could be forgiven, surely, for giving up somewhat.

_You can't stay here forever_, a voice in his head whispered. (At this point, his friends had given up telling him that themselves.) _She wouldn't want that_.

Roger rolled onto his stomach and pulled his pillow over his head, as though it were possible to drown out the sound of yourself; to muffle the dying cries of your mind.

* * *

Death was becoming too much of a fixture in Roger's life. It is common knowledge that every person dies in the end, but Roger had decided that to lose one's father, two of one's lovers and oneself to the Grim Reaper before one was even thirty was too much. Would he have to watch everyone else he loved die too? Or perhaps God or Fate or whatever made these decisions would take pity on him and let him go first.

He stumbled out of his room one day to find a coffee mug, stood on the kitchen table, filled with a bunch of flowers. At the top of the long green stalks were splayed delicate, purple-blue petals. Caught off-guard, Roger hesitantly approached the table and noticed a little white card nestled amongst the flowers. He extracted it carefully.

_Thought some irises would brighten up the loft a bit. Joanne xx_

For a split second, the truly strange thought that he should throw the flowers off the fire escape crossed his mind. Before he could catch himself, Roger had already scooped up the coffee cup and taken several determined steps towards the window. Why, he was not sure; maybe he deemed the flowers a cruel intrusion upon his world of death and pain, a sudden burst of light that stung his eyes after too long in the dark. But then, an even stranger thought occurred to him: _she_ would have loved these flowers. She would have carefully lifted the flower head and exclaimed that the colour was effing _gorgeous _and could she pull off that shade of blue? But then again, she was so much more alive than he could ever be, even in death.

Roger did reach the window in the end, if only to place the impromptu vase on the window sill before slinking back to his bedroom. When asked why he had moved it later by Mark, Roger merely shrugged. On the window sill, the sunlight would reach the flowers more easily; hopefully, they would grow, kept bright by the light, and that splash of colour would linger in their loft for longer. If Mark did not realize that, Roger could hardly explain it to him.

* * *

"Roger?"

Maureen crouched by his mattress, eyes wide and sympathetic. Roger glowered up at her but said nothing.

"It's been two weeks since the funeral, hun," Maureen continued, "Don't you wanna go outside or something? Maybe play a song?"

Roger said nothing, instead focusing his gaze on a spot on the wall. He heard Maureen sigh.

"The hospital called. They've got some stuff that needs picking up. We thought it would be good if you came with us to get it."

Roger tried to keep his expression neutral, but apparently could not hold back a wince at the thought. Maureen's eyes softened further.

"Sweetie, I know it's hard."

_No you don't. You've never lost someone you love._

Even as the words crossed his mind, Roger knew that they were cruel and unfair. They had both lost Angel, after all, and there had been…the _incident_ that was now—God—over two years ago. He still thought about that child sometimes; who it would look more like, whether it was a girl or a boy, whether he would have been a good Uncle Roger. But, like the lives of everyone else they have lost, the life of Maureen's baby is now just a big 'what if?'. The sheer inescapability of the fact that, as much as they daydream and wonder, some doors are simply bolted shut frightened Roger a little.

"Well," Maureen sighed, before adding stubbornly, "We'll just have to wait until you're ready."

Honestly, Roger would have grinned if he had not wanted to cry. After Maureen left, Roger sat up slowly and cast his eyes around the room. After _she_ had died, Roger had strung up a ratty old blanket and some of his shirts in front of the window in order to form a thick curtain that the world could not penetrate. Papers and clothes lay scattered on the floor, a half-written song here and a mismatched pair of socks there. Mark and Collins had taken away all of _her _things in the hopes that it would help him recover but now no trace of her remained in the room. His guitar was propped up against the box that constituted his wardrobe. It was looking at this that made Roger's heart pang abruptly; seeing it, trusty old Rodolfo, who had survived everything from a move to New York to disuse to a pawn shop, suddenly seemed to represent everything that he barely even let himself think about, the things that he could see no trace of in his room; his father, April, _her_.

Impulsively, Roger crawled to the edge of his mattress and reached across the small room to his guitar. He pulled it onto his lap and, just for a moment, contemplated it. With a feather light touch, he traced the shallow lines betraying its age, mapping out its story. Throughout everything, this guitar had been with him, a constant from the age of eight, the one thing he could express his rage and love through…and he never seemed to fucking play it. The random thought made Roger chuckle unconsciously and the alien sound surprised him.

Next, Roger pushed the guitar onto his bed and leant over the side of the bed again, this time to shove his hand under the mattress. He felt around gingerly for a moment and then stopped when the tip of his index finger brushed something cold and metallic. Using his index finger and thumb, he pinched the end of the knife handle and pried it out from under the mattress. He had snuck it into his room the day before _she _died just in case he—…well, just in case. The desperation that had bewitched him that day shamed him now; some change had taken place recently that seemed to be drawing Roger out of the blackness that had pushed him to hiding this knife.

Now, however, the knife would not be a danger but an instrument of love. To love someone meant to give a part of yourself away and let that person occupy that empty place. It meant to take a chance, to risk a few scratches. Roger was probably more bruised than most people his age but he would not take back one minute of being in love.

It seemed to make sense in his mind; he loved the guitar and he loved _them_. He had the guitar but he had nothing left of _them _except blood and memories. He wanted—_needed_—more than that.

The first stroke of the knife made Roger flinch but it was a start. Now, a long white line, deeper than the signs of age on the guitar, ran horizontally and just to the left of the round hole beneath the strings. Heartened, Roger continued.

It took a long time and several moments of inspiration, but by the time Mark next knocked tentatively at the door, the face of Roger's guitar was thoroughly tattooed. _Dad_ ran along the left side of the hole, the wrong way round unless he held the guitar sideways. _April _was carved just below the bridge, almost intersecting with the word _MUSIC _that took up most of the bottom of the guitar face. _hope_ and _glory _were written along each side of the fingerboard. The name that Roger had been refusing to speak—even to _think_—curled down the back of the neck, hidden from view but just so he could feel it and see it in his mind while he played: _M I M I._

"What are you doing, Roger?" Mark asked wearily, eyeing the knife with something akin to fear, "Where'd you get that?"

Roger wanted to tell him—desperately—but there was still so much that he wanted to say to Mark that it all clogged up in his throat. Besides, he had not spoken since Mimi had died; he was not sure that he remembered how to.

"You aren't…you're not…_cutting _yourself?"

Roger scowled. Realizing, Mark backtracked quickly, "Right, of course. Well, um…are you hungry?"

In reply, Roger lowered his eyes to his guitar. _Weak_, he thought, _Can't even talk to your best friend_.

"Well, okay. You know where I am."

The door shut quietly behind him. Roger waited for a few seconds before flipping his guitar over and taking to the back side. _Angel_, he wrote, _Collins. Joanne. Maureen. Mark._

After all, it was not a labour of love without including everyone that he loved.

* * *

The next night, Roger dreamed that he was nine years old. His brother was almost an adult while his sister was just escaping babyhood. He dreamt of times when death and anger and fear had not yet touched him, of times when he remembered the sound of his own laughter.

He was woken up by a rough shake. Maureen stood over him, grinning wildly.

"Roger, there's a surprise outside for you," she stage-whispered excitedly, "Get up."

Roger leant up on one elbow and stared at her in confusion.

"Roger, come on! Now!"

Obediently, with barely-disguised annoyance, Roger got up and shuffled out of the room after the bouncing Maureen. By the kitchen table, Mark, Joanne and Collins stood. Mark and Joanne had hopeful smiles on his face, while Collins looked like his birthday had come early.

"Never thought I'd see the day," he declared as Roger stepped out, "I'd always assumed you'd hatched out of an egg or something."

Roger furrowed his brow. _Huh?_

In answer to the unspoken question, a previously unseen person stood up off the couch and turned to face Roger.

"Hello, Roger," Alexandra Davis greeted in a small voice. Roger was—for a horrible, stunned, confused moment—silent. The pause lasted long enough that Alexandra clearly lost her nerve and the smiles were wiped from Roger's friends' faces.

"Roger, you see, your friends were concerned and thought that I ought to come up just to—"

Before the sentence could even wonder how to finish itself, Roger had shot forward and clutched his mother to him like a lifeline. Just like that, the hurt of the last fourteen years was wiped away; the distance between him and his family suddenly was not so great. Alexandra did not stay for as long as either of them would have liked but, at the end of the day, the names of his mother and siblings had found their places alongside those of his adoptive family. Joining them are the words _life goes on _and _no day but today_.

Suddenly, Roger began to wonder if everything was going to be okay.

* * *

Three days later, Roger ventured outside the loft for the first time since Mimi died and learned that it had not been as long as he had thought. It was the end of May and Mark was taking him to the hospital to kill two birds with one stone: to have Roger checked and to collect the things left there from Mimi's final stay.

Roger, at this point, still had barely said a word to anyone; Mark, instead of encouraging Roger to start speaking, simply stood in the examination room with him and answered the doctor's questions.

"How old are you, Rog?" the doctor asked as he drew a vial of blood. Roger narrowed his eyes at the somewhat obvious question. As if his date of birth was not already in his file, right under his name, which the doctor had already abbreviated…!

"He was twenty-six in January," Mark replied and threw the doctor a grin when he glanced at him disapprovingly. Roger covered up a snort with a cough.

"Physically, you're in good shape," the doctor continued, still addressing Roger, "but your blood should tell us whether you T-cell levels mean we should start worrying."

"He knows the drill, Doctor," Mark told him, interpreting Roger's dark look. The doctor glanced between the pair of them, sighed and visibly surrendered.

"I'll send a nurse in here to finish up with some paperwork, and I'll hopefully have your results soon," he informed them, before swiftly leaving the room. Mark smiled at Roger.

"We really should've been nicer to that guy," he pointed out. Roger tugged his sleeve down and shrugged, just as the door to the room opened again.

"Hello, I'm here with a few quick questions," the nurse, a blonde, tiny thing, chirped. She looked familiar; Roger was just struggling to place where he knew her from when Mark started.

"Um, excuse me," he said, frowning at her, "Aren't you…Nurse Pascal? You treated our friend earlier this year?"

Nurse Pascal blinked at him before her mouth formed an 'O' shape, "Oh, God, right, you're Mimi Marquez's friends! Yes, I remember her. Christmas, right?"

Mark nodded, eyes flickering towards Roger, whose face was once again stony. The nurse nodded.

"I'm really sorry about her, by the way," she told him, "I was treating her up until…well. It was very sad. We still have some of her belongings, I think. My superiors have been saying that we should throw it out, no-one would claim it, but—"

An icy-cold panic suddenly gripped Roger's chest. The idea of Mimi's things—nothing big, just her clothes and little decorative things that she insisted brightened up the room—being left in some dumpster somewhere drove Roger so crazy that, before he could think, he blurted out, "I know it's been two months but I'd really like her stuff back."

Mark's jaw popped open. Nurse Pascal turned to him in surprise, as though she had not noticed him.

"Oh, of course, Mr.…" she peered quickly at the file, "…Davis. I was just going to say, I remembered someone saying that her things would be picked up, so I saved them. Were you—?"

"Mimi's boyfriend," Roger said quietly. Nurse Pascal's eyes—sort of grey-green in colour—were warm and soft as she looked at him.

"I'm very sorry," she added and then brightened up a little, "Right, I won't bother you for long. Just some routine questions…"

An hour later, the doctor returned with the test results that Roger was both expecting and somehow dreading: his T-cells were perfectly fine. "You've done well to get so far," the doctor told him cheerfully, before innocently quipping, "What's your secret?"

"Having no life and watching your girlfriend die," Roger deadpanned.

"_Roger!_" Mark hissed, turning scarlet. The doctor recoiled somewhat, looking chastened and rather like he wished that he had never spoken. Roger offered him a derisive smile and stood up, "Are we finished?"

The doctor shook his head and recovered remarkably quickly, "Yes, but I would recommend more frequent tests, Roger, just to ensure you are healthy. Looking at your chart, it seems your last doctor's visits have been…erratic."

Roger nodded, pretending to pay attention, "Mmm-hmm, I try."

"Good. I'll just refill your AZT prescription for you."

Once a new bottle of AZT was safely in Roger's pocket and Mark had parted with an amount of money that he refused to disclose, they made their way to the nurse's station in the hopes of finding Nurse Pascal and the box containing the end of Mimi's life.

"You know," Mark commented casually as they walked, "Over the last couple of months, I've wanted you to talk again so much that I forgot how much I don't like what you say."

Roger chuckled, "Yeah. What have you been doing recently anyway? Other than waiting for me to talk."

"What do you mean?"

"Well. Where did that money come from?"

Mark was silent. It only took an impatient "_Mark_," from Roger, however, before the truth came rushing out, "_Today 4 U _got picked up by a smalltime distributor and it's doing pretty well."

Roger stopped. The silence between them stretched beyond time.

"What? When?"

Mark shifted awkwardly, "A couple of weeks ago. I haven't really told a lot of people…"

"Who have you told?"

Mark was silent.

"Oh, _Jesus_, Mark!"

"Well, I'm sorry!" Mark snapped, "I'm sorry for thinking that maybe you all had _enough _to think about!"

Roger opened and closed his mouth like a fish for a minute, "But…but, Mark, this is great news! Why wouldn't you want everyone to know?"

Mark searched for an answer, looking up as though the roof would help him out, "I…just…what with Mimi and everything…it never occurred to me that you all would be, you know. Interested."

Now it was Roger's turn to be silent. Mark looked, for a split second, horrified.

"Look, it doesn't matter. Let's just get Mimi's stuff and go, okay?"

Without waiting for a reply, Mark turned and rushed down the hall, looking way too hunched and small. Roger followed after a moment's pause. Nurse Pascal was waiting by the nurse's station, smiling and holding a carrier bag in one hand.

"Here you go," she said, proffering the bag to Roger. Inside are several things that Roger recognized: Mimi's favourite purple dress, the blue nail polish Angel gave her, a book that she was only halfway through, some flowery strips of cloth that Mimi had him throw over the bed to make it warmer and more colourful. Roger felt a lump in his throat.

"Thanks so much," Mark said to the nurse, smiling, "It's really good that you could hold onto it for so long."

Roger was not sure but he thought that Mark was blushing. The nurse definitely was.

"It was nothing, Mr. Cohen," she replied.

"Oh, please, my name's Mark."

"Mr. Cohen is his dad's name," Roger was unable to resist adding dryly. Mark scowled at him; Nurse Pascal giggled.

"Well, good luck, guys," she said to both of them. Mark nodded, muttered a final goodbye and turned as if to go.

The next few minutes, Roger will never be able to really explain. Those moments in life where your body possesses you before your mind can really think it through are few and far between; this was one of those moments. All he knew was that he could no longer let Mark keep putting his life on hold for them.

"_Really_, Mark," he blurted, "You're not gonna ask her out?"

* * *

Maureen could not stop laughing.

"Shut up, Maureen," Roger said evenly. It did nothing; Maureen just continued to cackle, occasionally slapping her leg, apparently finding the very idea of what Roger had done—which was, he had to admit, a rather blunt and unconventional method of asking girls out on dates—hysterical.

"Maureen," he repeated irritably, before grumbling, "Well, it _worked_."

Maureen roared with laughter again, "I just—you—aw, poor Marky!"

"Yes, poor Marky," Roger mocked, lying back onto his bed, "Out on a date on Saturday night, while you and I sit around the loft. With no food."

Suddenly, Maureen was no longer laughing, "We have no food?"

"How the hell should I know?" Roger demanded. He had been back in commission for all of a day; after that first use of speech in the doctor's office, it seemed as though he were making up for lost time. He wondered, in the very back of his mind, what was different this time. He had been in pieces for almost a year following April's death; scarcely two months had passed since Mimi's death and he already felt—just a little—better.

Like that, the answer was obvious. April had left Roger with no real hope of going on. Instead, she had given up herself, taken her own life, preferring that to weathering the storm with him and leaving him to cope with not one but two huge blows. It was Mimi, breezing into his life with a candle one cold night, who had taught him to live again. And it was Mimi who, before she died, told him to carry on living. Roger was still unsure of what to do with himself—after all, his life had just been changed and had to begin again, and he was starting it as a depressed, HIV-positive former musician in his mid-twenties—but he had his friends and his family and his guitar and Mimi's name permanently scratched onto his heart.

Just maybe, he was going to be fine.

In the midst of Roger's reverie, he had not notice Maureen leaping up to investigate the kitchen. He paid no heed to her wail of "Fuuuuck!" upon finding the contents of the fridge far too low, nor did he hear her sound of interest upon finding something worthwhile. He only noticed that she was gone when she reappeared again.

"Darling Marky left us some flow so we can go out!" Maureen announced, waving the bundle of green in her hand triumphantly, "Joanne's working late and Collins has some kind of meeting so it's just you and me," she paused for a long moment, looking at Roger pointedly, before sighing dramatically and crying, "_Really_, Roger, you're not gonna ask me out?"

"Oh shut up," Roger snapped but he was unable to resist smiling. Maureen smirked in return.

"So, you in?"

Roger hesitated, glancing between the money in Maureen's hand and Maureen's barely-daring-to-hope face. He wondered when the last time was that he and Maureen had a good night alone together.

Then again, he also could not remember the last time that he felt capable of a good night.

"Meh, fuck it," he decided, "If Mark's buying."


	28. There's Only Us

**Please don't hate me. You know how much I appreciate you guys, right? Seriously. I have been genuinely surprised and pleased at the response my little—er, not so little—story has received. I've loved writing it, especially because it has taken directions not even I knew it would. Seriously, I originally had a much different ending in mind. Then again, I think I prefer this one.**

**Anyway. Yes. This is the last chapter.**

**I apologize for any OOC-ness or any parts that seemed rushed.**

**Again, I so appreciate every review this story has and I hope that all of you—most of you—…some of you?...—are happy with this ending. It's been a good year. And if it ever feels like the Maureen/Roger section of **_**RENT **_**fanfiction is getting way too low, just give me a shout :)**

* * *

**There's Only Us**

_July 1997_

It was finally summer. After the one of the longest winters—and springs, for that matter—of Maureen Johnson's life, it was finally _summer_.

Maureen loved summer. For one thing, it was impossible to be totally miserable when the world around you was bathed in a golden glow. For another, summer was when people wore as little clothing as possible and, well, Maureen was not about to complain. The long cold months were at last behind her and there was a comfortable amount of time before autumn was upon them again so Maureen felt like she could actually relax for once. Nothing bad ever happened in summer. It was always spring and fall when she got royally fucked over.

Therefore, when she woke up on the loft sofa—which was comfortable in the way that only a piece of furniture felt to a person after several hours asleep, no matter how broken or rough it usually was—and the sun was shining through the window, she was instantly overjoyed. She leapt up and ran to the bathroom to throw on some clothes, staunchly ignoring the clock on the wall with the grimy face that read five to seven.

In her haste, she accidently woke up Collins, who stumbled from his room and arched a brow at her.

"Mo."

Maureen poked her head out of the bathroom door and grinned, "Morning, Tom!"

"What did you just—never mind. Why are you up this early?"

Maureen shrugged and retreated back into the bathroom. As she pulled a tank top over her head, she called, "Dunno. I guess I felt like it. Isn't it a _beautiful _morning, Colly?"

Incredulous, Collins repeated "_Colly?_" under his breath before commenting loudly, "Someone's happy this morning!"

"Yep!"

"Well, keep it down, will ya? I'm going back to bed."

From the bathroom, there came a sharp, over-the-top gasp. After a moment, Maureen stepped out through the door to plant her hands on her hips and glare at him.

"Thomas Bartholomew Collins…!"

Collins groaned.

"It's a gorgeous, sunny, _inspiring _day outside and I want us to make the most of it! All of us! Today is a day when absolutely anything is possible—there is so much unbridled potential just outside our doors and you want to sleep such a glorious morning away?"

"Are you high?" Collins intoned. Maureen shook her head so violently that her curls went flying, refusing to stop swinging even after she stopped.

"Wake up Marky and Roger. I'm going to call Joanne," she declared. She turned towards the phone, only to be stopped by Collins' large hand on her shoulder.

"Okay, first, it's seven a.m. and not everyone is as alive as you at this time," Collins informed her, "Second, Mark's in there with Philippa and I am notgonna risk _another _eyeful of pasty white sex, okay? And thirdly, Roger worked the late shift last night so it is genuinely for health and safety reasons that I will not go in there and wake him. Have you ever been hit in the head by a ratty pair of plaid pants, Maureen?"

Begrudgingly, Maureen shook her head.

"No, you have not. I have. It was disgusting. I wish I'd never bought the fucking things for him."

Despite herself, Maureen snickered a little. Collins' eyebrows pulled together in an attempt to look threatening, though there was now a telltale gleam in his dark eyes that Maureen had not seen in some time.

"Why, Ms. Johnson," Collins growled in an unconvincing English accent, "Do you dare mock m—?"

Maureen had slammed into him before he could finish, her arms vice-tight around his neck. She could not explain exactly why such emotion had swelled within her chest and compelled her to do this. Perhaps it was because it was summer, a time when Maureen felt hot and happy and comfortable and appreciative and _grateful_—

"I love you, Collins," she sighed blissfully against his neck, "I love you so, so much and you're one of the bravest guys I know. Never ever change."

There was a pause loaded with every word that both felt and neither said. It was almost as though Angel was in the room with them, muffling her pleased laughter at their dramatic show of love with one perfectly manicured hand.

"Christ, you are high," Collins grumbled, but hugged her back anyway.

Angel would have loved the sunlight.

"Fine, we'll go out."

"YAY!" Maureen squealed, leaping back from Collins in order to clap excitedly. There was a second tense pause, as it dawned on both of them that their display had probably woken up their roommates. The silence was promptly broken by Roger, stumbling from his room.

"_Fuck_," he muttered, leaning to peer at the clock, "I hate you guys."

"No you don't. You _love _us!" Collins teased, instantly back to his playful, unapologetic self.

"No, I actually hate you. A lot."

"Well, tough, you're stuck with us," Maureen informed him firmly, "And we're all gonna have a fun day out because it's finally sunny. So get dressed."

Roger scowled at her, before turning to glance out of the window. Then he turned to scowl at her some more.

"Just as well it's a nice day, cos otherwise I'd _really _fucking hate you right now."

* * *

It took a lot of fighting, begging and petulant foot-stomping (almost all on Maureen's part) but eventually her whole gang agreed to go for lunch together. Maureen had been gunning for a whole day, eight in the morning to six in the evening (or something like that) but Joanne had to go into the office, Collins had an early meeting and it was unexpectedly difficult to extricate Mark and Philippa (or Nurse Pascal, as Roger and Collins called her because they were convinced that Mark called her that during sex) from the bedroom. In the end, Maureen just gave up and made them swear that they would come to the Life Café for twelve o'clock. Sharp. On pain of death.

In the meantime, she was adamant that she and Roger find a way to amuse themselves for a couple of hours. Roger was still a little groggy and cranky but he was still capable of nodding along as they strolled into the city and Maureen babbled.

It was only when Maureen abruptly went silent that Roger really woke up.

She had come to a complete standstill just next to one of New York's various subway entrances. Leaning forward and folding her arms over her chest, she gazed into the dank stairwell and allowed her mind to wander.

"Maureen?"

Almost startled, Maureen looked back at Roger, who was frowning a little in confusion.

"Something wrong?"

"No," Maureen replied, "I was just…thinking."

She was quiet for another few seconds. Then, impulsively, before her mind could catch up to her mouth, she blurted out, "You know what we should do? We should get the subway back to Hicksville."

"What?"

"You know, go home. See my parents, my stepdad, my little brother. I still haven't met him, you know? How the hell does that happen? And we could go see your mom and your sister. I'll bet Rebecca's beautiful—God, I haven't seen her in years. We haven't seen any of them in years. They leave so close and I've only talked to my mom face-to-face…like, once. Roger, how the fuck does that _happen_?"

Maureen was only aware of how breathless she was getting when Roger suddenly grabbed her upper arm and started to drag her through the throng of people towards a small store. His face was curiously stoic. Maureen's chest burned. She wondered what had brought on that rant; was she having a panic attack or something? Maybe a breakdown. Nothing bad ever happened in summer. Why couldn't this have waited until autumn?

The store turned out to be a relatively empty record store. Fairly dull, generic pop music floated over the speakers while a bored employee and a few stragglers drifted around the racks of CDs. Away from the noise of the streets, Roger turned to Maureen and asked her, once again, what was wrong.

"Nothing…nothing's _wrong_," Maureen insisted. Before, staring into that subway entrance, she had felt lost and despairing; it was as though a weight were pressed down on her. Now, she felt curiously calm.

"Nothing's wrong," Roger repeated disbelievingly, "You just randomly decided that you wanted to go home."

"I _don't _want to go home."

"Then what?"

"I just—" Maureen broke off suddenly. A wave of emotion, similar to what she had felt earlier with Collins, struck her again. She _was _grateful; she loved her friends and her home and would not trade one second of the last few years in for anything.

But _then_—and it all hit her like a tidal wave, her fears and doubts and nightmares—there still lingered the fear that Maureen would end up alone, screwed up and miserable. The links she had to her loved ones sometimes seemed so tenuous—a word, a look, a thought sometimes seemed enough to break them—and, even on the days when Maureen felt like nothing would ever come between them, the ever present inevitability of Roger and Collins' conditions remained, niggling at the back of her mind. The threat of death hung over them like a cloud and Maureen was never sure that, when the day that it struck again came, she would be able to handle it.

And, of course, who could forget about the other shit that Maureen worried about constantly? All that baggage that she would be carrying whether or not her closest friends were dying—the fear of commitment, the botched relationships with her family. Would going home change that—_any _of that?

Probably not. Some scars could not magically heal, no matter how much time had passed.

There were some gloomy corners of the heart that not even sunlight could brighten up.

"Roger," she asked in a small voice, "Is this how you pictured your life turning out?"

It took only a moment for Maureen to realize that she had just asked a very stupid question. If she had not, the look Roger was giving her would have soon seen to that.

"What do _you _think?" Roger asked wryly. Maureen averted her eyes from Roger's thunderous face and felt herself begin to grow tearful.

"Sorry," she mumbled. An awkward pause passed before Roger sighed angrily and shifted.

"Sorry," he told her, causing her eyes to snap up in surprise, "that I…snapped. I'm trying to work on the whole, uh, touchy thing."

A smile pulled at the corners of Maureen's lips. Roger looked at her fondly with a hesitant smile of his own.

"Do you wanna…talk about it?" he asked. This is unfamiliar territory, they both knew. The Roger of ten years ago would have had no qualms about asking Maureen personal questions. This Roger was a little quieter, a little colder. But Maureen suddenly had the feeling that, if she scratched at the surface a bit, that Roger of old would shine through.

"Do you remember," she said instead, "when we first decided to come to New York? And I had to convince you by using all that leap of faith crap?"

"My father's leap of faith crap," Roger corrected witheringly. In response, Maureen arched a brow, causing the smile to break back onto Roger's face.

"Yeah, that," Maureen continued. She took a deep breath, before shyly mumbling, "I'm sorry if…none of that ended up being worth it."

Roger blinked. "What?"

"I know that I made it sound like moving here would be the best thing ever and our lives were gonna go exactly the way we planned. But, in reality, I just wanted to get the fuck out," Maureen admitted, "and I wanted you with me. It was stupid, I know. You didn't want to and I made you and if I hadn't…"

She trailed off, instead allowing her eyes to map his form pointedly.

"If _we _hadn't," she corrected herself quietly, "maybe none of this bad shit would've happened."

The silence that followed was, for lack of better work, loaded. Everything that had been unsaid, every feeling and thought, seemed to charge the air like electricity. Maureen imagined that Roger was letting her words sink in; maybe he was thinking about Nathan and his band and the drugs and the girls and the disease and wondering how much of it could have been prevent if, if, if.

If he had been stronger.

If they had never gone to New York.

If Maureen's parents had never divorced.

If his father had survived.

If he and Maureen had never met.

The thought was almost too devastating to bear. Maureen had to squeeze her eyes shut tightly to hide the fact that tears were threatening. The only thought even more terrible than never meeting Roger was Roger turning to her right now and telling her that _she was right_.

"You know," Roger remarked conversationally, "I knew you were dramatic but I never figured into the insecure thing."

Maureen was so taken aback that she did not even think before her eyes popped open. The sheen in her eyes was unmistakable to Roger and he smiled despite the situation around him.

"I wanted to come here, Maureen. Believe me, if I hadn't, I wouldn't have. And none of the things that have happened to me have been because of you. That was—sorry—that was bullshit. It was all…" Roger hesitated and had to brace himself before saying, "That was my fault. I shouldn't have ever got involved with that stuff. And I shouldn't have spent so long regretting it that I missed out on so much. I should've…" he paused again, this time to duck his chin in order to meet Maureen's lowered eyes, "I should've listened to you."

Maureen began to shake her head, "But I—!"

"Maureen, for fuck's sake," Roger interrupted, "You're my best friend so I can say this stuff without feeling stupid, okay? _I've _been the shit friend. Not you," he waited a moment, expecting Maureen to speak. When she did not, opting instead to stare at him, he rolled his eyes and continued, "Maureen, come on, you've heard this before. _Forget regret_. We've both done stuff we're not proud of. We're both totally messed up. But never—_never_—will I ever want to blame you for this. And I definitely don't want to stop being your fucking friend. Okay?"

The tears burned more insistently in Maureen's eyes but she continued to try and rein them in. When she spoke, however, her voice was wavering dangerously.

"Really," she said. It was supposed to come out as a question, but Maureen dared not use a higher tone in case her voice really cracked. Roger smirked a little.

"Yeah. Really," he said. After that, there were not any words left to say, so Roger simply pulled Maureen to him and wrapped his arms around her. Her ear was pressed against his heart; the beat is steady and surprisingly strong.

_Because Roger is alive_.

Because, disease or not, there was every possibility that Roger could still hang on for a few more years, that he could still lead a good life. Because Roger had, so far, defied every odd; he kicked his habit, he ventured outside, he fell in love, he learned to _cope_. He had had several moments of weakness but his heart had never given up.

For the first time in far too long, Maureen felt reassured. Her parents, his illness, all the issues and angst both still carried—none of that mattered for the time being. Why would it, when everything she needed—friendship, love, a therapist—currently had his arms tight around her?

"I love you," she muttered into his shirt. He had changed out of those goddamned plaid trousers, at least. He was still wearing that green sweatshirt. _Her _green sweatshirt.

Before he could reply, she added, "I can hear your heartbeat, Rog."

Her own was pounding. The rush of blood seemed to thump in her ears, muffling the surrounding sounds as Roger pulled back a little to look at her.

It was only when he absentmindedly pushed a lock of hair off of her forehead that Maureen's self-control snapped. That was when she leaned up and kissed him.

It was by no means the first time they had kissed. The first time, it had been about connection and reassurance. At the time, he had been a drug addict and she a mother. Now, they were not really anything; just Roger and Maureen. Maybe that was why it all of a sudden felt _right_.

It was an unexpectedly chaste kiss, considering who the parties involved were. Maureen did not want a sweaty, hot, French kiss, or sex or anything like that. She wanted to…well, she was not so sure. She just wanted—sorely, badly, desperately—to kiss him. For the first few seconds, it was strange, especially with several shoppers glancing judgmentally at them and with Roger rigid under her touch. Maureen was beginning to wonder if she had made a mistake—if she had just irrevocably destroyed the friendship that Roger, only moments before, had saved.

Then, she felt a gentle pressure against her mouth.

Then, she felt his lips part _just a little bit_.

Then, she felt Roger well and truly kissing back.

* * *

Roger and Maureen wound up being late for lunch at the Life Café. Their friends were more than a little irked; after all, was it not Maureen who had insisted on them all meeting up? Roger just shrugged and told them that they had got lost on the opposite side of the city.

"My fault!" Maureen chirped, not looking the slightest bit remorseful. Then she turned to the waiter and loudly demanded wine and beer. She was not ready to tell them what had really happened.

Not yet.

Obviously, whatever transpired between her and Roger in the future would not be simple. So many factors had to be considered—least of all, Roger's disease. Least of all, their baggage. Least of all, how to explain it to their friends, particularly Mark and Joanne.

Maybe it would not work out. Maybe it would.

Maybe there would be nothing to work out.

But let's say there was.

_Fin._


End file.
